C) Copyright Robert Augustine McDonald 1978 THE POPULAR DRAMA OF REPERTOIRE, 1880-1914: A FORMULA APPROACH BY Robert Augustine McDonald A DISSERTATION Submitted to Michigan State University in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY Department of Theatre 1978 ABSTRACT THE POPULAR DRAMA OF REPERTOIRE, 1880-1914: A FORMULA APPROACH By Robert Augustine McDonald This study applies principles and methodologies derived from the field of Popular Culture to the typical dramatic fare of repertoire. Repertoire was a popular- priced, touring theatrical institution that arose in the post-Civil War era and flourished mainly in the towns and small cities of rural America until its rapid demise in the Depression of the 1930's. In both eras of its exis- tence as a major entertainment form, the opera house era and the era of tent-repertoire, or the tent-shows, reper— toire brought wholesome family entertainment (popular dramas and entre-act vaudeville) to millions of Americans. The purpose of the study is to show specific con- nections between the popular dramas and the particular sector of American society from which repertoire drew its main audience-~the rural, small town, lower and lower- middle classes. In line with this purpose, John G. Cawelti's 'concept of formula' methodology is introduced and adapted for use with popular dramatic materials. As a concept, formula, or popular genre, is defined by Cawelti Robert Augustine McDonald as "a combination of cultural conventions with a more uni- versal story form or archetype."1 Among several types of formulas encountered in a study of approximately 130 popular dramas of the opera house era (1880-1914), the melodramatic formula of 'the innocent outlaw' is singled out for close critical study. Structured on the universal story pattern of fall—expul- sion-redemption, this formula develops the theme of wrong- ly accused innocence through various conventional elements of plot, situation, character, and setting. Among these elements, several are shown to have special cultural rele- vance to the rural working classes of the era. The 'fall' of the innocent protagonist, for example, is typically as- sociated with life in the city; hence it is seen reflecting rural mistrust and fear of urban life. The study concludes that the formula's synthesis of relevant cultural symbols with universal story patterns enabled it to fulfill certain cultural and psychological functions akin to social rituals, games, and dreams for small town audiences. As ritual, for example, the formula temporarily allayed personal and communal tensions by re- affirming traditional social and moral values at a time when the forces of modernization and urbanization were Robert Augustine McDonald altering the traditional patterns of social, economic, and cultural life in small, rural communities. 1John G. Cawelti, Adventure, Mystery and Romance (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1976), p. 6. This study is respectfully dedicated to two repertoire showpeople and one of their most avid fans: Mr. and Mrs. Harold Rosier of the Rosier Players, whose love of repertoire made this study possible; and Dr. Russel B. Nye, whose love of American Popular Culture is a constant source of inspiration for his many grateful students. ii ACKNOWLEDGMENTS First of all, I would like to express my sincere gratitude to my dissertation adviser, Professor Frank Rutledge, who has been patient and has helped immeasurably through his insistence upon clarity and logic. Next, I offer my thanks to the members (past and present) of my dissertation committee for their encouragement and sug- gestions: Dr. Clinton Burhans, Dr. Robert D. Klassen, Dr. Russel B. Nye, Dr. Farley Richmond, and Dr. Randall Robinson. In addition, I acknowledge with gratitude the assistance and inspiration received from two teachers and advisors: Dr. Clarence Bahs, and Dr. J. F. A. Taylor. Besides my various committee members, there are other individuals at Michigan State University and else- where to whom I owe a debt of gratitude for their encour- agement, advice, and assistance: Mr. Bert Arnold, Dr. Arthur Athanason, Dr. Maurice Crane, Dr. John Herr, Dr. Frederick P. Murray, Dr. Joyce Perkins, Mr. Alex Pitcaithley, Mr. William Garfield Price, Mr. and Mrs. Harold Rosier, Dean Howard Stein, and Dr. Ardelle Striker. Also, Ms. Jannette Fine and Ms. Anne Tracy of the Special Collections Division of the Michigan State University Library have my appreciation for their kind assistance. iii A special note of gratitude is expressed to Dr. William L. Slout, who has not only assisted me personally with vital information and advice, but has assisted future scholars through his generous donations of taped inter— views, letters, ledgers, and other memorabilia from the repertoire era to the Russel B. Nye Popular Culture Col— lection at Michigan State University Library. Finally, I express my gratitude, as well as my admiration and love to my wife, JanetKirsten, for her hard work and her many patient sacrifices. iv TABLE OF CONTENTS INTRODUCTION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 Chapter I. REPERTOIRE AND ITS DRAMA . . . . . . . . . . . 4 Historical and Social Perspectives The Rise of Opera House Repertoire The Rise of Tent-Repertoire Recent Developments in the Criticism of Repertoire II. TOWARDS THE DEVELOPMENT OF A FORMULA APPROACH TO POPULAR DRAMA. . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 Towards a Definition of the Concept of Formula A Procedural Model For Formula Studies Formula as Theme and Variation-—The Aesthetic Perspective Formula as Game--The Sociological Perspective Formula as Social Ritual-—The Anthropological Perspective Formula as Collective Dream-—The Psychological Perspective Summary III. THE FORMULA OF THE INNOCENT OUTLAW . . . . . . 86 The Origins of the Innocent Outlaw Formula The Structure of the Formula Conventional Patterns of the Fall Phase Conventional Patterns of the Expulsion Phase Conventional Patterns of the Redemption Phase Conventions of Setting and Character Summary TABLE OF CONTENTS Chapter IV. THE CULTURAL SIGNIFICANCE OF THE INNOCENT OUTLAW FORMULA. . . . . . . . The Cultural Background to the Formula The Formula as Social Ritual The Formula as Game The Formula as Collective Dream Summary V. SUMMARY AND CONCLUSIONS. Popular Melodrama——An Experience of the Social Self APPENDIX A. THE CONTROVERSY CONCERNING THE ORIGINS OF TOBY . APPENDIX B. NOTES ON THE EFFECTIVENESS OF THE FORMULA METHODOLOGY . . . . BIBLIOGRAPHY . vi 151 194 207 211 214 INTRODUCTION In 1974, cultural historian David Grimsted made an informal plea for a more culturally oriented dramatic history.1 He argued that in their concentration on the "perennial" within the history of great plays, theatre scholars and critics have neglected "the temporal role of drama" within specific cultures. This neglect is parti— cularly unfortunate because certain "peculiarities of theatre as an art form make it an especially revealing barometer of culture, or societal consciousness." In place of the great play syndrome, then, Grimsted calls for a kind of dramatic history which would "require seeing covert connections between different aspects and artifacts of a given society in a way that reveals something of the cultural assumptions undergirding it."2 This study is a response to Grimsted's plea. In the following chapters, a culturally oriented approach will be taken to the popular drama of a popular-priced, touring theatrical institution of the late nineteenth- 1David Grimsted, "An Idea of Theatre History: An Informal Plea," Educational Theatre Journal, XXVI, 4 (December, 1974), 425-32. 2Grimsted, "Idea of Theatre History," p. 426. and early-twentieth centuries that was known as 'reper— 3 The purpose of the study is to show specific toire.‘ ways in which the popular dramas reflected and expressed the value/belief systems of the particular sector of American society from which repertoire drew its main clientele--the rural, small town, working classes. Two playscript collections have been major re- sources for the study. First of all, in 1972, ex-reper- toire actor—manager Harold Rosier of Jackson, Michigan, permitted his personal collection of promptscripts from the repertoire era to be reproduced for Special Collection Libraries at Bowling Green and Michigan State Universities. Many of the scripts in the Rosier Collection were once the property of an earlier repertoire actor—manager, Richard R. Henderson (1876-1936), who founded his Henderson Stock Company in 1898. The collection is of tremendous value for students of American popular drama. This is true despite the fact that bibliographical problems are caused by spurious titles, missing title pages, etc. There can be no doubt, however, that the collection con- tains accurate typescript versions of a large number of 3The spelling 'repertoire' is one that was pre- ferred by the performers of repertoire; hence, it will be employed in this study. 4As an interesting case in point, an otherwise reliable version of Clay M. Greene's popular play Forgiven is listed under the title "Jack 0' Diamonds.” the most important plays of the repertoire era. Another invaluable resource for the study has been the Readex Microprint Corporation's English and American Drama 9: the Nineteenth Century.5 This extensive collection contains nearly three thousand American dramas written between 1800 and approximately 1906. Included in this number are many of the farces, comedy-dramas, and melodramas that were the standard bills of fare during the first era of repertoire's existence, the era of opera house repertoire. This collection represents a truly significant development for students of repertoire, since it makes a large number of published and unpublished repertoire dramas more readily available to a broader range of scholars than in previous years. Given the availability of two important collec- tions, then, it was necessary to evolve a methodology that would permit the analysis of a large number of individual works. It was important that the method assist the critic in distinguishing between atypical dramas and those that were representative of a general pattern that may have been followed in dramas that have not been pre- served. Such a methodology was found in the adaptation of 5English and American Drama of the Nineteenth. Century, Allardyce Nicoll and George E. Freedley, eds., (New York: Readex Microprint Corp., 1969- ); hereafter cited as EADNC. John G. Cawelti's 'concept of formula' methodology for use with dramatic materials.6 Chapter I places the institutional development and the drama of repertoire in their historical and social contexts, and describes the strong rapport between reper— toire troupers and their small town patrons. A brief dis- .cussion of recent trends in the criticism of repertoire drama argues that fresh perspectives on a broader range of plays may prove useful. The concept of formula methodology is introduced and described in Chapter II. After basic definitions and distinctions are given, the chapter begins an exploration of the method's potential for use with popu- lar dramatic materials. In Chapter III, the adapted methodology is put to practical application as the conven- tions of one of the leading melodramatic formulas (or 'popular genres') of the era, the 'innocent outlaw' formula, are described and discussed. The analysis of this formula continues in Chapter IV. The cultural-historical back— ground to the formula is briefly described, and various connections and analogies are drawn between certain exist- ing cultural concerns and the formula's cultural dimensions of social ritual, game, and collective dream. Chapter V 6Cawelti, "The Concept of Formula in the Study of Popular Literature," Journal 9: Popular Culture, III, 3 (Winter, 1969), 381-390. 5 summarizes the findings of the study. The chapter con- cludes with a final discussion of the nature of popular melodrama and the temporal role it performed for the audiences of repertoire. CHAPTER I REPERTOIRE AND ITS DRAMA Historical and Social Perspectives The years between 1870 and 1914 comprised a richly varied era in the history of the American theatre. The rapid expansion of the nation's railroad systems after the Civil War helped to open a new and lucrative entertainment market in the form of a vast circuit of towns and small cities that had previously been inaccessible to theatre troupers. A number of different types of theatrical touring organizations rode the rails to do battle for their share of the wealth. 'Combination' companies fea- tured star performers in fully mounted, touring produc— tions of recent New York successes. 'Tom shows' strove to outdo one another with more and more sensational versions of Uncle Tom's Cabin. Another type of 'one—nighter' organi— zation might specialize in an old standard like Ten Nights in a Bar Room, or in some newly penned melodrama featuring such spectacular scenic elements as an earthquake, a train wreck, or the old reliable saw—mill buzz-saw. Minstrel shows, wild west shows, medicine shows, Shakespearean troups, and light opera companies each offered their particular entertainment product.1 And, last but not least among the competitors, there was a largely unsung, now nearly forgotten type of organization that was known as the repertoire company. This chapter will cover two major eras of reper- toire's sixty year existence: that of the opera house repertoire (between approximately 1870 and 1910) and that of tent-repertoire (between 1900 and 1930). In order to place the institutional development of repertoire within its broad historical contexts and in order to establish a methodological model for later cultural and historical analysis, the beginning of the chapter will relate briefly to the work of three social historians who have examined the major popular theatre forms of the nineteenth century—- early melodrama; minstrel shows; and vaudeville. After this preliminary discussion, a definition of repertoire will be given, along with a description of some of the his— torical and theatrical factors that brought opera house repertoire to its peak of success in the 1890's and tent- repertoire to its peak in the following two decades. Of 1For theatre histories of the era, see especially Arthur Hornblow, A History of the Theatre in America (2 Vols.; New York: Benjamin Blum, Inc., 1965); or, Glenn Hughes, A History of the American Theatre, 1700—1950 (New York: Samuel French, 1951). For popular theatre and popular entertainment forms, see especially Robert C. T011, 92 With the Show (New York: Oxford University Press, 1976); and, Russel B. Nye, The Unembarrassed Muse (New York: Dial Press, 1970). particular concern will be the relationship between the artists of repertoire and the audiences they served, especially insofar as that relationship came to influence the dramatic fare that was presented by the troupes. In response to the recent growth of interest in popular culture and popular amusement forms, historians David Grimsted, Robert C. N011, and Albert F. McLean have made important investigations of the relationship between nineteenth-century popular theatre forms and their audi— ences.2 In their respective works, the historians fol- lowed essentially the same historical methodology which Toll described as follows: The scholar cannot simply assume that popu— lar culture accurately reflects popular thought. . . Since the social significance of any source depends on its links to a broad segment of the public, the scholar must first establish the relationship be- tween the popular form and its patrons. He must define the nature and scope of its audience to determine its social base. He must also closely examine the process by which the form is created and shaped. The more immediate the interaction between the consumers and the producers or performers, the more likely it is that the content of the form directly embodies the thoughts, feelings, needs, or desires of its patrons. 2In the analysis and comparison of the critical methods of these historians, I am heavily endebted to Alan R. Havig, "American Historians and the Study of Popular Culture," Journal of Popular Culture, XI, 1 (Summer, 1977), pp. 180-92. 3Robert C. Toll, Blacking Up: The Minstrel Show in Nineteenth Century America (New York: Oxford University Press, 1974), p. 282. As a first step towards applying this methodology to the institution of repertoire, it will be useful to place repertoire and its audience in their historical and social contexts with respect to other theatre forms and other audiences in the nineteenth century. In the early part of the century, popular melo- drama appealed to an audience with a very wide social base that included upper, lower, and middle classes. In M319: drama Unveiled, Grimsted demonstrates that early melodrama was "the major form of public entertainment available to all classes," and that it brought ”all the ranks of the people together."4 Because of this broad based public sup— port, he finds in early melodrama "an unusually sensitive barometer of an age's concerns and attitudes."5 But, as the century approached its mid-point, the social base of the popular theatre audience was to become more and more fragmented. Grimsted observes: "One roof, housing a vast miscellany of entertainment each evening, could no longer cover a people growing intellectually and financially more disparate."6 4David Grimsted, Melodrama Unveiled: American Theatre and Culture, 1800-1850 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968), p. ix, and p. 52. 5 Grimsted, Melodrama Unveiled, p. ix. 6Grimsted, Melodrama Unveiled, p. 75. 10 The first major theatre form to emerge from this social fragmentation was the minstrel show. In Blacking Up: The Minstrel Show in Nineteenth Century America, Toll demonstrates that based on its strong interaction with the urban, white working classes, minstrelsy ”remained the most popular entertainment form in the country” from the 1840's until the 1880's.7 He also argues that minstrel shows per- formed important social and psychological functions, such as providing "a nonthreatening way for vast numbers of white Americans to work out their ambivalence about race at a time when the issue was paramount." After the demise of minstrelsy in the 1880's, the entertainment world witnessed the rapid rise of vaudeville as a major popular theatre form. In American Vaudeville as Ritual, McLean observes that from its infancy in 1885 the institution of vaudeville "had grown with such amazing rapidity that even in 1900 it had dominated popular amuse- ments in the more thickly populated areas of the United States."9 He attributes that rapid rise to vaudeville's strong links to what he calls "the New Folk”--urban dwel- lers who were one or two generations removed from the folk 7Toll, Blacking Up, p. v. 8Toll, BlaCking g2, p. 272. 9Albert F. McLean, American Vaudeville as Ritual (Lexington, Kentucky: University of Kentucky Press, 1965), p. l. 11 traditions of either rural America or peasant Europe.10 For these individuals who "aspired to the status and pos- sessions of the mercantile middle class, McLean argues that vaudeville performed various cultural functions.11 Most importantly, it provided ”a ritual of Americanization" that helped them to "dull the bitter edge of transition in- to the mechanized and overpopulated environment of the twentieth century."12 At approximately the same time that the major urban centers were witnessing the decline of minstrelsy and the rapid rise of vaudeville, the small cities and towns of rural America were witnessing the gradual rise and develop- ment of yet another popular theatrical form--repertoire. What was repertoire? What specific sector of rural society comprised its main audience? What social and psychological functions, if any, did it perform for that audience? Do the popular dramas of the repertoire era em- body the popular thought of that sector of society? These are the basic questions that this study has posed for itself. In order to begin the process of answering them, it is necessary to start with definitions. 10McLean, pp. 38-44. 11McLean, p. 41. 12McLean, p. 213. 12 From their origins in the late—1860's until their sharp demise in the Depression of the 1930's, repertoire troupes performing in local opera houses and under canvas brought popular-priced theatrical entertainment featuring popular dramas and vaudeville acts to untold millions of Americans. Theatre historian William L. Slout, who is the son of a well-known Michigan tent—repertoire actor-manager, defines repertoire companies as ”dramatic troupes with a repertoire of plays extensive enough to accommodate a nightly change of bills for a period no shorter than a 13 Each week at prices of ten, twenty, and thirty cents.” of the distinguishing features of Slout's definition, the week's engagement and the popular priced admission, had profound effects on both the institutional development of repertoire and its dramatic fare. These features and their effects will be discussed after a brief description of the social and historical contexts that repertoire evolved in. Repertoire drew its main clientele from a particular sector of the socially fragmented theatre public of the late-nineteenth—century. Whereas minstrel shows and vaude— ville found their main audiences among the urban working classes, repertoire was oriented to the rural, small-town 13William L. Slout, Theatre 13 3 Tent (Bowling Green, Ohio: Bowling Green University Popular Press, 1972), p. 13. 13 working classes. Repertoire historian Jere C. Mickel states that "rep show audiences were rural, their tastes were different from the likes and dislikes of the big 14 cities.” He further delimits the audience with the fol- lowing comments: The rep shows were important because they were the grass roots theatre of the country. Theirs was the audience of the common peo- ple. The upper middle class, the 'pillars of society', and the functionaries of the churches, looked down upon the tent theatre because it was pure entertainment. . .The mass of the pigple went to the shows and enjoyed them. Another useful description of the audience is found in the colorful account of a typical tent-show audience written by Zelda Popkin: The company plays to lean farmers, unshaven, often unwashed, who come clad in working over— alls, collarless, who slump in their seats, worn out by all day's haying in the hot sun, who are childishly eager to be amused; to plump farmer's wives in housedresses and aprons, to young couples who have come twenty miles in the Ford over rough dirt roads, carrying the baby in their arms, bringing the two and four-year-olds to sit sleepily alongside until nearly midnight, to the village undertaker, and the choir singers, to the garage mechanic and his sons and daughters. Their audience is talkative, live- ly, and it has the wistfulness of people who work hard and have little recreation. It is, with the exceptions of the very young agd the very old, well-mannered and attentive. 14Mickel, Footlights on the Prairie (St. Cloud, Minn.: North Star Press, 1974), p. 7. 15 Mickel, p. 8. 16Zelda F. Popkin, "The Tent Show Turns to Sex," Outlook and Independent, CLVI (Sept. 24, 1930), pp. 128-30. 14 Based upon these descriptions, it may be concluded that the audience of repertoire was mainly a rural, small town, lower- and lower-middle-class family audience. The Rise of Opera House Repertoire Three historical factors set the backdrop for the rise of opera house repertoire in the post-Civil War era. First, the expanded and improved railroads spread in- creased prosperity to towns that had previously been remote and inaccessible. At the same time, the expanded rail- roads made theatrical touring more lucrative since it opened up a vast new circuit of towns known as 'the road'. Secondly, with increased prosperity came more leisure time and, soon, in towns along the rail lines, "men of means began to realize that the building and operation of a place of amusement and entertainment might be a profitable 17 business venture." Hence, the years between 1880 and 1900 became the "golden age of opera house construction."18 And, finally, the post-War era witnessed a decline in the traditional, religiously based antagonistic attitudes to- wards theatre that had once heldsmmy hi small, rural towns.19 17Willis F. Dunbar, "The Opera House as a Social Institution in Michigan," Michigan History Magazine, XXVII (October-November, 1943), pp. 662-72. 18 Dunbar, p. 664. 19Dunbar, p. 664. 15 Although, as a later discussion of drama in Chautauqua programs will show, these attitudes did not disappear entirely during the opera house era, they declined to a significant extent allowing repertoire and other theatri— cal organizations to draw audiences from the previously intolerant middle classes. A major element creating this increased tolerance for dramatic entertainment was the truly phenomenal popularity and sustained drawing power of the nineteenth century's most successful melodrama—-U§glg Tom's Cabin.20 Influenced by these historical, social, and theat— rical conditions, then, repertoire had its origins in the late—1860's and early-1870's.21 The basic idea of the touring schedule of week-long engagements enabled reper- toire, as an institution, to combine the benefits of tour- ing with some of the advantages of the resident repertory company. On the one hand, the touring schedule permitted the repertoire troupe to meet a new audience each week with minimal changes in their basic repertoire of plays. On the other, a week's Stay in a given town enabled the troupe to 20For a discussion of how Uncle Tom's Cabin solved the theatre's problem of a lack of support among the res- pectable middle-class, see Philip C. Lewis, Trouping: How the Show Came to Town (New York: Harper & Row, 1973), pp. 82-97. 21 Slout, pp. 11-18. 16 minimize travel hardships and expenses, and thereby compete on stronger terms with their one-nighter rivals.22 In addition, the week's residency, repeated as it was in most cases on a seasonal or annual basis, afforded the troupes unusual opportunities to create a type of strong rapport with their small-town audiences which one-nighter organi- zations could not easily achieve. Mickel comments that ”the established show's rapport with their audiences was so great, that the towners often thought of them as estab- lished local institutions."23 Some idea of the quality of that rapport may be gained from Willis F. Dunbar's recol- lections of the troupes that visited his small hometown, Hartford, Michigan: The management and cast remained quite stable and became well known in the town. People came night after night to see these shows. The actors seemed like old friends. Quite often, the actors boarded and slept in 24 private homes while they were in the Village. Aside from minimizing travel expenses and facili- tating good rapport with audiences, the week-long engage- ment policy was a factor influencing the characteristic types of dramas that the repertoire troupes performed and 22Mickel, p. 6. 23Micke1, p. 60. 24Dunbar, How It Was in Hartford (Grand Rapids, Mich., W. B. Erdmans PEH., 1968), p. 115. 17 the characteristic manner in which those dramas were per- formed. Since the rep troupes toured with as many as eight separate productions, they were forced to orient themselves to dramas that were relatively free of strenuous technical requirements. A one-nighter organization might easily carry its own special apparatus and scenery for such spectacles as two freight trains passing at great speed, or a steamboat exploding on a river.25 Such spec- tacular scenes would have been largely beyond the means of the average rep company, however. Most companies carried minimal amounts of their own scenery, relying, instead, upon the stock scenic elements and equipment in the posses— sion of the local houses. Since the houses varied enor— mously in their holdings, the companies needed to select plays that could be performed with relative simplicity.26 Harlowe R. Hoyt recalls the net effect of these factors upon the typical repertoire productions he witnessed as a boy: 25For descriptions of some of the spectacles mounted by one—nighter organizations, see Joseph Gallegly, Footlights ee the Border: The Galveston and Houston Stage Before 1900 (The Hague, The Netherlands: Mouton & Co., 1962), p. 143 and passim. 26Dunbar, "Opera House," pp. 667-68,quoted two useful contemporary newspaper accounts of opera house scenic holdings: Coldwater Republican (Michigan) Sept. 19, 1882, which contains the complete listing of a very well- equipped house; and, Berrien County Record (Michigan), May 7, 1889, which is a humorous comment on another house's lack of scenery. 18 Handicapped by meager scenery and restrict— ed space, each rep company solved its indivi— dual problems in just about the same way. There was a strange uniformity in all of these shows, including make-up, costuming and stage business. As time went by and more playwrights (including rep man- agers themselves) wrote especially for the limited tech— nical resources of repertoire theatre, the dramas tended more and more towards spartan simplicity. So much so, in fact, that many tent-show classics were written to require only one or two simple settings.28 Just as the dramas and the productions of the rep companies tended towards a characteristic uniformity, so the sequence of plays presented in a particular week's engagement tended to follow a characteristic pattern as well. Although managers were obviously free to schedule as they pleased, the repertoire tradition handed down various 'rules of thumb' concerning how best to plan a week's agenda of dramas. Rep manager—playwright Neil Schaffner, for example, inherited the following formula from an older manager, Sam Spedden of the Spedden and Paige Dramatic Company (Minnesota): 27Hoyt, Town Hall Tonight (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice Hall, 1955), p. 3. 28William L. Slout, "Popular Literature of the Dramatic Tent Show," North Dakota Quarterly, XL, 4 (Autumn, 1972), pp. 42-55. Examples of dramas requiring minimal sets are: Clouds and Sunshine, Saintly Hypocrites and Honest Sinners, and Where's My Teddy. Each of these are tent-rep classics. 19 MONDAY (opening): A play with a heart inter— est, a strong vein of comedy and 'dress' - at least one act in which the entire cast could appear in its finest attire. TUESDAY: A family comedy, to appeal especial- ly to the women because it is the women who pull the men back the second time. WEDNESDAY: A hillbilly or mountain play - a change of pace, enjoyable but not too sub- stantial. THURSDAY (feature night): A play with a strong, dramatic story line and settings to permit a more elaborate production than others in the rep; a play to be talked up from opening night. FRIDAY: A light comedy or warm-hearted story like Jack O'Diamonds. 29 SATURDAY: A farce, to leave them laughing. Like its weekly touring schedule, repertoiretstnar ditional policy of popular—priced admission charges pro- duced significant effects upon both the institutional de— velopment of rep and its characteristic dramatic fare. The implementation of the ten, twenty, and thirty cents admission policy in the 1880's provided the institution with a major stimulus towards a marked rise in popularity that was to last till nearly the end of the century.30 The low prices were evidently appealing to the lower— and lower—middle classes. The prices were low enough to permit a poorer family to attend at least one performance together, and to allow a family of better means to return several 29Neil E. Schaffner and Vance Johnson, The Fabulous Toby egg Me (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1968), p. 60. For a description of a slightly different week's schedule, see Slout, "Popular Literature," p. 44. 30 Slout, Theatre, pp. 13-20. 20 times during the week. Especially in the less populous areas visited by companies in the later era of tent— repertoire, a successful engagement might well depend upon a considerable percentage of the townspeople turning out in family units for most of the evenings of the engagement. For these reasons then, it is evident that the popular ad- mission price was a key factor in the success of reper- toire as family entertainment for members of the less prosperous classes. The popular price policy was a factor that influenced the typical troupe's selection and production of plays in both direct and indirect ways. First, the low admission prices produced a level of income in most cases that forced companies to limit their numbers of personnel and, there- fore, their cast sizes. The average troupe usually numbered approximately four women and six men. Although doubling of minor and even medium-sized roles was a standard practice, these numbers placed rather distinct limits on the plays that the typical troupe could mount successfully.31 It was also common for troupes to include whole families within their ranks and everyone was expected to do his part both 32 on-stage and off. This gave the troupers an added 31Slout, Theatre, pp. 13-20. 32Slout, Theatre, p. 21—22, 50—51; and, Mickel, 27-35, 123-28. 21 measure of flexibility in their selection of dramas. Hoyt describes a typical rep company that toured Wisconsin small-towns in the eighties and nineties: The Allie Spooner Dramatic Company was an annual visitor to Beaver Dam. . . There was Pa Spooner, and Ma Spooner, and Baby Spooner; a character man with a silky blonde mous- tache; a heavy who tipped two—hundred—odd and who could have doubled for John L. Sulli- van without the moustache; and J. Ashley Rush, who did everything from juveniles to old men and characters, along with others sufficient, with resourceful doubling, to round out a 3 nightly change of bill and Saturday matinee. The active, visible presence of family members in the casts of repertoire dramas probably helped to reinforce the in— stitution's respectability and credibility as a family entertainment form in the eyes of its patrons. A second way that the popular prices affected the typical dramatic fare is more complex and requires some historical perspectives. Just as the popular price policy forced troupes to minimize numbers, so it forced rep com- panies to consider any and all possible means of economy. For troupes performing as many as eight play per week at ten, twenty, and thirty cents, the payment of copyright royalties on each of the plays would have amounted to a considerable expense in a year's time. In order to survive and to maintain its popular prices, repertoire developed 33Hoyt, pp. 107-08. 22 three major practical solutions to this pressing problem during its long lifespan: the use of royalty—free foreign melodramas and aged, uncopyrighted melodramas; the evasion of royalty payment through the use of pirated plays, the changing of titles, and other similar tactics; and, finally, the use of original dramas written (or, at least, rehashed from older materials) by manager-playwrights and other repertoire people themselves.34 Broadly speaking, these practices when arranged in the order of their most fre- quent practice form a rough chronology of the dramatic fare of repertoire. In the earliest days of repertoire during the 1860's and 1870's, the typical fare had consisted of such English and European melodramas as Lady Audley's Secret, The Lady 9: Lyons, The Hidden Hand, East Lynne, The Two Orphans, 35 and The Old Curiosity Shep. These melodramas had intrin- sic appeal and were free of royalties since they were foreign. In time, however, audiences became bored with the 34Slout, Theatre, p. 71. 35For informative lists of representative plays performed by repertoire troupes during the early years (1870's and 1880's), see especially Gallegly, pp. 173—233; Hoyt, pp. 42-47; James D. Kemmerling, "A History of the Whitley Opera House in Emporia, Kansas: 1881-1913," Emporia State Research Studies, XVIII, 3 (March, 1970), pp. 21-35; Henriette Naeseth, "Drama in Early Deadwood, 1876—1879," American Literature, X (November, 1938), pp. 289—312; Slout, Theatre, pp. 14-18; and, Clair Eugene Willson, "Mimes and Miners: A Historical Study of the Theatre in Tombstone,” University 9; Arizona Bulletin, VI, 7 (October 1, 1935), pp. 176-84. 23 old standards and desired to see American plays. In fact, beginning in the late-1870's, there was a general upsurge in interest in native 'local color' characters and set— tings.36 Reflecting this upsurge, two kinds of plays be- came more and more frequent items in repertoire-~the 'gold rush' drama; and the 'b' gosh', or rural drama.37 The 'gold rush' play was inspired by the tremendous popularity of Bret Harte's short stories of the California mining camps. Frank Rahill comments: Virtually every writer of gold rush plays from the seventies onward used the stock Harte character types and aped the famous Harte brand of sentimentality: Joaquin Miller in Forty Nine and The Danites lg EMe Sierras; Bartley Campbell in How Women Love, The Vigilantes, and My Partner; and Augustin Daly in Horizon. 36For excellent discussions of the rise of American realistic and local-color drama, see especially Arthur Hob- son Quinn, A History 9: the American Drama: From the Civil War to the Present Day (New York: Appleton-Century-Crofts, 1964)? I, pp. 125:162; Ima Honaker Herron, The Small Town 13 American Drama (Dallas: Southern Methodist University Press, 1969), pp. 107—206; and, Frank Rahill, The World 9; Melodrama (University Park, Pa.: Pennsylvania State Univer- sity Press, 1967), pp. 254-61. The local color movement will be discussed in further detail in our Chapter III. 37Some idea of how the popularity of these plays influenced the dramatic fare of typical small-time reper- toire troupes may be gained from a close scrutiny of lists of productions provided by Kemmerling, pp. 21-70. Kemmer- ling's lists are particularly useful since they list the names of the performing organizations, as well as titles of plays; hence, various years and various troupes may be com- pared. Cf., for example, the Lyceum Theatre Company's of— ferings, p. 29, and Richardson and Arnold's Union Square Company, p. 30. Both troupes reflect the addition of gold rush and rural plays. 38Rahill, p. 237. 24 Of these plays, The Danites and My Partner were to become standards of repertoire along with many other mining camp dramas.39 As Harte had inspired the 'gold rush' drama, an ex-variety actor named Denman Thompson inspired hundreds of playwrights in 1886 with his enormously popular success The Old Homestead.4O The play, which evolved from a variety sketch, featured the delightful adventures of a paternal, New Hampshire rustic, Uncle Joshua Whitcomb, who is part fool and part sage. Although the first acts take place in the city, the play returns to Joshua's rural village in the last act and shows charming rustic characters in quaint country settings. The play was the model for hundreds of 'Uncle' shows (e.g., Old Jed Prouty, or Uncle Josh Spruceby), and created a fashion for rural dramas that depicted speci- fic locales (such as Way Down East, Mp New York State, or Hick'gy Farm).41 Such dramas, complete with their casts of 39These and other 'gold rush' plays will be dis- cussed in further detail in Chapter III. 40Thompson, The Old Homestead, in S. R. 0.: The Most Successful Plays ef the American Stage, ed. by Bennett Cerf and Van H. Cartmell (Garden City, N.Y.: Harpers, 1944). 41For discussions of Thompson's career and his in- fluence, see among others "The Significance of Joshua Whitcomb," Current Literature, L (June, 1911), pp. 648-50; James L. Ford, ”Our National Stage," McClure's Magazine, XXXII (April, 1909), pp. 491-99; and, Richard Moody, American Takes the Stage (Bloomington, Ind.: Indiana Univ— ersity Press, 1955), p. 113. 25 familiar characters--including the 'Uncle', his 'silly-kid' hired boy, the local gossip, and the city slicker——were particularly popular with rural audiences. Especially in the era of tent-shows, the rural play was to become the stock-in-trade of repertoire.42 As the popularity of foreign melodramas declined and more American 'local color' plays were written, there was a notable increase in the use of pirated plays among reper- toire troupes. Slout states the matter quite simply when he says, ”repertoire could not have existed as low-priced 43 Play pirates such as the entertainment without piracy." notorious Alex Byers of the Chicago Manuscript Company made lucrative incomes supplying hundreds of small—time rep com- panies with a much-needed commodity-~popular plays at cheap prices.44 According to Slout, piracy reached a peak in the years between 1888 and 1893.45 But, despite their financial benefits, illegal practices were to prove mixed blessings 42For discussions of rural play in the repertoire tradition, see Slout, Theatre, p. 74; Mickel, pp. 7-9; and, Hoyt, pp. 91-94. The rural play will be discussed in further detail in Chapter III. 43Slout, Theatre, p. 26. 44For discussions of Byers, his career, and his le- gal entanglements, see Slout, Theatre, pp. 28-30; and, Arthur E. Krows, Play Production 1e America (New York: Holt, 1916), pp. 276—84. 45Slout, Theatre, p. 26. 26 to opera-house repertoire. As stricter copyright laws and more effective en- forcement procedures were put into effect by Congress, the wide—spread illegal practices were to prove a major factor in the decline of opera house repertoire. A series of stern legal measure culminated with an 1897 law that implicated the local opera house manager in the responsibility for any illegal performances in his establishment. With unofficial enforcement officers at such close quarters, the incidence of piracy declined and the institution of opera house reper- toire lost some of its competitive strength.46 In a certain important sense, however, it may be said that repertoire's loss was its audiences' gain. For, as this discussion will shortly demonstrate, the enforced decline in the use of pirated plays in the opera house era set the stage for the increased use of plays by manager—playwrights in the dawn— ing era of tent-repertoire. The decline of the opera house rep as a major in- stitution came about as a result of two causes in addition to the crackdown on piracy. The first of these was the growing competition from metropolitan-based touring organi— zations. Hoyt observes: During the 'nineties,.- . Road shows in- creased from two hundred to five hundred 46Slout, Theatre, pp. 26-32. 27 companies booked from New York. They covered the map like a blanket and they grew more numerous when Klaw and Erlanger organized the Syndicate. . . .Rfi)companies found the sled- ding harder when their former patrons could visit a neighboring town and see a real New York production. Both the increase in the numbers of metropolitan companies and the increase in their syndication and organization ac— cording to modern management and labor practices signalled that the forces of modernization and urbanization were reaching out to the previously remote rural areas trans- forming traditional social and economic patterns. Opera house repertoire might have survived the crackdown on piracy and the growing competition from metro- politan troupes had it not been for the meteoric rise of another phenomenon of modernization-~the motion picture in- dustry. Slout states: . .serving as the last straw for opera house repertoire, the motion picture craze that began in 1896 with the first exhibi- tion of Vitascope at Koster and Bial's Music Hall in New York City had by 1906 reached a degree of gublic acceptance totally unexpected.4 As a result of the public's eager acceptance of motion pictures, local opera house managers soon found it much more profitable and also more convenient to ”cast the legi- timate attractions to oblivion and turn their 'opery' 47Hoyt, p. 278. 48Slout, Theatre, p. 32. 28 houses into 'nickelodeons', or 'bijou dreams.”49 The Rise 9: Tent-Repertoire What grew out of the demise of opera-house reper- toire was the rise of tent-repertoire, or the tent-shows. Neil Schaffner, an Iowa-based repertoire manager-playwright, recalls the transition between the houses and the tents: By 1916,.. . a revolution had taken place in show business. . .. . Motion pictures had suddenly grown up into big business and taken over the legitimate theatres. There was no place for the rep companies to ap- pear in the small town, except for a few troupes that had always been under canvas. Now, by force of circumstances, virtually all of theg became tent companies almost overnight. 0 As Schaffner implies, the idea of touring in reper- toire fashion under canvas was not a new one. It is generally accepted that the first dramatic tent-repertoire was produced by Yankee (Fayette Lodavik) Robinson (1818— 1884) in Davenport, Iowa, during the fall of 1851.51 Robinson, who soon left dramatic touring for the circus 49"Talking Pictures and Drama,” Scientific Ameri- can, CV, 7 (August 12, 1911), p. 156. 50Schaffner, quoted by Joe Alex Morris, "Corniest Show on the Road," Saturday Evening Post (Sept. 17, 1955), p. 62. 51For discussion of Yankee Robinson's early activ- ities in tent-drama, see T. Allston Brown, History 9: EMe American Stege (New York: Dick and Fitzgerald, 1870), p. 317; Mickel, pp. 16-17; Slout, Theatre, pp. 48-49; and, Sherwood Snyder, III,"The Toby Shows," Diss. University of Minnesota 1966, pp. 14-17. 29 business, was an early anomaly, however. Tent—repertoire did not really become wide-spread until late in the nine— teenth century, with the development of such family touring repertoire companies as the Ginnivan Dramatic Stock Company in the early 1880's. As the children of early tent—show men and women grew up and started tent companies of their own, they led a marked growth in tent theatre activity through the 1890's.52 However, the institution of tent-repertoire did not come to national attention until after the turn-of—the- century. Besides the pressure from the newly spawned motion picture industry, there were several other major factors that helped to account for the sudden popularity of tent-shows. Since these factors have been thoroughly analyzed elsewhere, they may be briefly outlined here.53 First, the move to tents was given added impetus by a national boom in outdoor recreation, amusements, and sports that had begun in the 1890's and was continuing in the first decade of the new century.54 Second, the increasing 52Mickel, pp. 19-20; Slout, Theatre, pp. 50—51. 53Mickel, pp. 19-20, 39—41,51-32; Slout, Theatre, pp. 51-70. 54For a general discussion of the outdoor amusement boom, see especially John Higham, "The Reorientation of American Culture in the 1890's,” in gge Origins 2: Modern Consciousness, John Weiss, ed., (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1965), pp. 25-48. 30 availability of automobiles enabled the tent-shows to draw upon wider ranges of territory for patronage in the rural areas. And third, in 1905, the idea of tent-touring re- ceived enormous publicity and a boost in prestige, when Sarah Bernhardt cleverly evaded a manager's boycott of her 'farewell tour' by performing under a vast tent which travel- led with her throughout the Southwest.55 Another factor that spurred the rise of tent—reper— toire is of especial interest, because it sheds light on the conservative nature of small-town audiences during the era of repertoire. The idea of drama under canvas was given added respectability by two developments in the Chautauqua movement. First, in 1903, the Chautauquas be- gan touring with canvas tents, instead of relying upon small towns to provide permanent pavillions to house their week's agenda of edifying lectures, courses, and other educational and cultural activities. Second, in a circumspect process that took many years, the programs gradually introduced dramatic entertainment. Fearing the moral wrath of the religiously conservative towners, managers began with elocutionists and impersonators of famous characters of fact and fiction. Soon, they added 'quick-change'artists, who, in some cases, performed whole 55See Louis Verneuil, The Fabulous Life ef Sarah Bernhardt, trans. Ernest Boyd (New York: Harper & Bros., 1942), pp. 255-56. 31 plays such as Ben Hur unassisted! Finally, in 1913, a full production of The Comedy ej_Errors was introduced by an English company, the Ben Greet Players, and met with an enthusiastic reception wherever it toured.56 Slout explains the influence of these developments on the tent-shows: The early tent shows experienced hostility from small town inhabitants, stemming in part from fly-by—night circuses and medi- cine shows. With the adoption of tents by travelling Chautauquas and with the inclu- sion of dramas in the cultural programs, tents began to lose the stigma of iniquity, and small town prejudice towards the theatre improved in general. Stimulated and encouraged by the combination of the various cultural and theatrical factors outlined above, the numbers of tent-repertoire troupes steadily increased through the first two decades of the twentieth-century. The peak years, according to Slout, took place during the War years between 1916 and 1919;58 however, tremendous 56For detailed descriptions of these developments in the Chautauqua movement, see Harry P. Harrison, Culture Under Canvas (New York: Hastings House, 1958), pp. 188-204; and, Victoria Case and Robert 0. Case, Me Called 1; Culture (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday & Co., 1948), pp. 25—40. 57 Slout, Theatre, p. 53. 58Slout, Theatre, pp. 63-70. Slout and Mickel are in substantial disagreement in their appraisals of exactly when the tent—show phenomenon had its peak years of activ— ity. Mickel, pp. 20-21, asserts that the World War I years were a temporary interruption to the period of rising suc- cess. It should be noted, however, that Slout's arguments in defence of his interpretation are more carefully elab- orated and, therefore, more convincing than Mickel's. 32 levels of tent activity continued into the 1920's. In 1927, Don Carle Gillette, editor of Billboard, wrote: ”According to records kept by Billboard, there are at pre- sent approximately 400 tent theatres scattered around the United States."59 A more conservative appraisal was given in 1926 by J. D. Colegrove, an important theatrical agent and play-broker: To the best of our knowledge there are somewhere around 325 tent repertoire shows. Perhaps a third or a fourth of these run all year under canvas, or 40 weeks or more. Just as a rough estimate we would take it this way: 325 shows,7 performances a week, equals 2,275 multiplied by 30 weeks (for average) would be 68,250 performances under canvas during the year. And finally, Actors Equity Records revealed that there were 190 Equity affiliated tent organizations in 1923 and 1926.61 Such divergence of opinion as to the number of companies has led to diverse estimates of total tent show attendance. Gillette gives the following estimates: The combined audience of the canvas world... is greater than that of the legitimate theater. Owing to the infrequency of their visits—-usually just once a year-~the coming 59Gillette, "The Vast Tent Drama Industry,” New York Times, October 16, 1927, IX, 2:1. 60Colegrove, Letter to A. Bernheim dated May 5, 1926, quoted in Alfred Bernheim, The Business 9: Theatre (New York: Benjamin Blum, Inc., 1964), p. 98. 61 Figures quoted by Bernheim, p. 99. 33 of a tent show is more or less a holiday event in the majority of small communities, and capacity attendances are the rule. An average of 800 at each performance--which is a low estimate since many of the canvas theatres seat more than a thousand--would mean that the tent Shows play to 76,800,000 persons each year.6 It should be noted, however, that Gillette's figures were probably the most optimistic estimates that the period pro- duced. Alfred Bernheim has compared Gillette's and other compilations. He cites two estimates. One was an esti- mate of eight million total attendance based on Equity com- pilations of Equity companies only. The other was an esti- mate calculated upon the figures provided by Colegrove above concerning total numbers of tent troupes. This esti- mate puts the attendance at approximately thirty-four mil- lion. Far from discrediting the strength of tent-reper- toire due to the varying projections, Bernheim concludes: ”Whatever figures we consider, it is clear that the tent show business is by no means an insignificant factor in theatre. Eight to seventy-eight million make a vast audience."63 The main concentration of tent activity described in these various statistics was in the central states of the midwest and the south.64 It is reported, for example, 62Gillette, "Vast Tent Drama Industry,” p. l. 63Bernheim, pp. 93-99. 64Bernheim, pp. 98—99. 34 that as many as sixteen separate troupes competed for towns in the state of Kentucky in a single year in the 65 It was not unusual for certain small towns in 1920's. the midwest and south to be visited by as many as three or four troupes in a single summer season. Considering the sheer breadth of tent-show activity, Vance Johnson is prompted to comment that during this era "repertoire was America's great family theatre."66 The rapid rise in the number of tent-repertoire organizations in the first decades of the twentieth- 67 This was century created a sharp demand for new plays. especially true because the troupes performed minimally eight plays a season and needed an entirely new agenda of plays each season since they returned to the same territory time and again. "At first," according to Omar Ranney, "the tent shows tried to bring a touch of Broadway to the country, playing things like Potash and Perlmutter and 68 Nothing But the Truth." However, plays such as these that dealt with urban, upper-class characters and problems proved ineffective with rural audiences. Besides, Broadway 65Carol Pennepacker, "A Surviving Toby Show: Bisbeeks Comedians," Tennessee Folklore Society Bulletin, XXX, 2 (June, 1964), pp. 49-52. 66Johnson, Introduction to Fabulous Toby and Me, pp. vi—viii. 67Slout, ”Popular Literature,” p. 43. 68Ranney, "Forever Toby," Theatre Arts, XXXVII, 8 (August, 1953), pp. 73, 95. 35 plays carried high royalties and, since piracy had been proven risky, the more established troupes were reluctant to attempt that alternative. Clearly, then, there was a pressing need for a substantial number of new plays that would be suited not only to the casting, scenic, and bud- getary limitations of the new repertoire companies, but to the particular tastes of their audiences as well. In res— ponse to the growing demand, two important developments took place: an increase in the number of play-brokers and playwrights who wrote and supplied plays specifically for the small-time rural troupes; and a rise in the number of managers and other artists from within the repertoire com— panies themselves who began writing their own plays. Two of the leading play-brokers who supplied dramas to the tent-shows were Alex Byers, the pirate mentioned earlier, and Robert J. Sherman. After a round of legal troubles and the passage of a copyright law that threaten- ed dealers in illegal manuscripts, Byers made a genuine effort to start a legitimate play agency in 1909.69 His strategy was to employ a group of hack-writers in his 'Chicago Manuscript Company, paying them from twenty-five to one—hundred dollars per play depending upon whether it was a new play, or a re-write of an older, or current suc- cess. Upon payment, the writers surrendered their copy- right and royalty rights to the plays. Despite the fact 69Slout, Theatre, p. 77. 36 that the operation was evidently rather unseemly, Byers‘ writers provided the tent-shows with a good number of the most popular and widely performed standards of their era. W. C. Herman, for example, wrote the classics Clouds and standard Won My Waiting with Byers' writer Nelson Compston. Other writers in Byers' employ were: Clarence Black, Miron Leffingwell, Lem Parker, and Langdale Williams.70 A promotional slogan on the cover—page of a Robert J. Sherman script effectively captures the spirit of the agencies that aimed at the rep troupes for their main mar- ket: It's a Sherman play It's bound to pay! It comes from the firm that writes plays 71 And submits them to the small shows first! Writing in the 1920's and 1930's, Sherman wrote several standard tent-rep dramas including Tildy:Ann, Spooks, and 72 S'mantha. Besides Byers and Sherman, other play brokers for the tents shows were: A. Milo Bennett; E. L. Paul; and Russell Murdoch.73 7OMickel, p. 65. 71Sherman, title—page of Tildy-Ann (Chicago: mimeo- graphed copy, n.d.), in Rosier Collection. 72Mickel, p. 67. Several Sherman plays are avail- able in the Rosier Collection, including S'mantha, The Crimson Nemesis, and Hell's Garden. Sherman, Spooks (New York: S. French, 1932), in author's personal collection. 73 Mickel, p. 67; Slout, "Popular Literature," p. 55. 37 The dramas of the manager-playwrights probably represent the crowning artistic achievement of the reper- toire tradition and a culmination of all that was signi— ficant and distinctive about the institution and its dramatic fare. These playwrights possessed a uniquely personalized knowledge of the small-town audiences for whom they wrote. With their annual or seasonal visits of a week's duration to the small communities of their established territories, these individuals were able to observe on-going life in the towns, become personally acquainted with a large spectrum of people, and gain an accurate knowledge of the issues and problems facing small communities in a time of rapid social, economic, and poli- tical change. Sherwood Snyder comments on the effects that close contact between the artists and their audience mem- bers produced: Through this familiarity and close relation- ship with the audience, the rural characters of the Toby play [i.e., typical tent-show comedy-drama] came to represent man as each region knew him. The plays witnessed were not from another time, or from another place. They were about people and situations close at hand. 4 Manager-playwright Neil Schaffner makes a similar observa- tion about the drama of the tent-repertoire era: 74Snyder, "Toby Shows," p. 104. 38 Our plays are the story of the common peo— ple in the midwest. They are not Broad- way, they're Main Street. We use human, interesting, true-to—life stories, getting ideas from real life and negspaper articles we've seen over the years. These factors are effectively symbolized in the career of Texas-born manager—playwright Charles Harrison. Harrison and his wife, Gertrude, began touring 76 His varied and colorful under canvas in Texas in 1906. career as an actor, director, manager, playwright, play- broker, and theatrical agent spanned the years between the beginning of the century and World War II. Hence, his career coincided with the rise, the peak years, and the decline of the tent-shows. In addition, the wide range of talents Harrison developed in his professional life reflect- ed the type of versatility that repertoire tended to de- mand of its minions.77 Two of Harrison's plays have been ranked by reper- toire historians and showpeople among the very most popu- lar, most widely performed of all rep dramas--Saintly Hypocrites and Honest Sinners, and The Awakeningei John 78 Slater. Mickel comments as follows on the former play: 75Schaffner, interview in Macon-Chronicle Herald (Miss.), Sept. 8, 1962, quoted by Snyder, "Toby Shows," FL 100. 76Johnson, Introduction to Fabulous Toby, pp. vi—viir 77Mioke1, pp. 66-67. 78Harrison, Saintly Hypocrites and Honest Sinners (n.p., mimeographed copy, c.1915), in Rosier Collection; Harrison, The Awakening of John Slater, (n.p., mimeographed copy, c.1914), in RoSI§r_ColIectIOn. The latter play is avail— able in Robert Dean Klassen, "The Tent—Repertoire Theatre: A Rural American Institution," Diss. Michigan State Univ., 1970. 39 [Saintly Mypocrites] is probably the great- est of these 'lost' plays of the American small-time theatre. It has often been said that it has been played more times, and has been seen by more people than any other play produced in this country, except for one or two of the English classics. The play tells the story of a small-town minister's strug- gle to maintain his Christian ideals and his job, when the snobbish, hypocritical elders of his congregation pressure him to refuse his pastoral care to a dying town drunkard and his young daughter. As Mickel notes, the play bears strong similarities to Henrik Ibsen's The Pillars e: 80 Society. The success of Harrison's play helped create a 81 vogue for so called 'preacher plays' in rep. Harrison's second classic, The Awakening pi John Slater, deals with one of the chief thematic concerns of rep drama--tensions between country and city life. John Slater is a country boy who has left the farm to become a successful city lawyer. He is married to a cold, worldly, 79Mickel, p. 66. Saintly Hypocrites and other rep classics mentioned and discussed in this study (such as Clouds and Sunshine and The Call 9: the Woods) were fre- quently performed by showboat companies, as well as by tent-rep companies. See Philip Graham, Showboats: The His- tory 9: ep American Institution (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1951),;uL 105, 110, 127. 80Mickel, p. 8. For other comments on Harrison's two most popular plays, see Slout, Theatre, pp. 74-77; and, Schaffner, Fabulous Toby, p. 93. 81For discussions of the preacher play and its sig- nificance, see Mickel, p. 66; and Slout, Theatre, pp. 75-77. 40 and socially conscious woman. When Slater's family (in- cluding his 'silly-kid' brother, Lun) come for a visit, they encounter the snobbish hostility of the wife and her sophisticated friends. The tensions of the plot are re— solved with the revelation that John's wife is a profes— sional bigamist. In the final scene, John vows to marry his country sweetheart and bring his entire family back to the city to live together in his luxurious apartment. In these and other plays such as The Only Road, Harrison evidently displayed an uncanny ability to create believable small-town characters and situations, and ap- peal to the tastes and concerns of rural audiences.82 Veteran tent-show actor-manager Ted North gives the fol- lowing explanation for Harrison's success as a writer: He just simply lifted small town characters he came into contact with in these smaller towns and put them up on the stage in these characterizations. And, these plays were 83 the most successful for these small towns. 82Harrison, The Only Road (n.p., mimeographed copy, n.d.), in Slout's personal collection. Slout, Theatre, pp. 81-82, describes the plot. 83Ted North, taped private interview with William Slout, Los Angeles, Ca., May 1, 1965. These and other ex- cellent interviews with veteran repertoire showmen and wo- men may be consulted at the G. Robert Vincent Voice Library, Michigan State University Library, East Lansing, Michigan. Dr. Slout kindly donated tapes of his many interviews to that Library. 41 Charles Harrison and other repertoire playwrights such as George Crawley, Neil Schaffner, Will H. Locke, John Lawrence, and, J. S. Angell helped sustain tent—repertoire as a major family entertainment form for the first three decades of this century.84 The demise of tent-repertoire came suddenly and with even less warning than that of opera house repertoire. In the previous era, the forces of the motion picture in- dustry required about a decade to rise to strength in non- metropolitan areas; hence, the decline came more gradually. But, the combination of several factors dealt a death blow to tent-shows in a brief three or four year interval. First, in 1927, the shows suffered a new onslaught of com- petition from motion pictures, when the 'talkies' arrived upon the scene to capture the public's attention.85 Secondly, by 1930, a new amusement industry had arisen in radio. Unlike other rival entertainment organizations, the radio could easily reach the more remote towns that had 86 previously been the prime territory of tent-rep. Thirdly, unionization in industry created better wages and working 84For discussions of various tent—rep playwrights, see Slout, "Popular Literature," p. 55; Mickel, pp. 65- 67, .158-159; and Schaffner, Fabulous Toby, esp. p. 93. 85 Mickel, pp. 161-64. 86Mickel, pp. 161-64. 42 conditions that tempted actors and show people from the hard life of tent touring.87 However, the most influential of all factors causing the demise was the Depression of the 1930's. Figures published by quity Magazine in the early years of the decade provide telling evidence of the Depression's ef- fect. In 1930, it was reported that there were fully 201 Equity tent organizations on the road, employing some 1,809 actors and actresses. That impressive figure dropped in the following year to 151 troupes employing 1,359 actors.88 A similarly substantial decline in 1932 left 107 troupes with only 856 actors. In 1933, there were only 30 troupes 89 Finally, in 1937, there were only employing 300 actors. 4 troupes remaining with a meagre 40 actors.90 Evidently, the proud sixty year history of repertoire as a strong, viable theatre institution had come to an abrupt and pre- cipitous end. Recent Developments 1p the Criticism e: Repertoire Drama In its sixty year lifespan, repertoire left little in the way of permanent written records of its achievements. 87Slout, Theatre, p. 112. 88Equity Magazine, XVII (November, 1932), pp. 15—16. 89Frank Gilmore, "What the Depression Has Done to the Theatre," Equity Magazine, XVII (February, 1933), p. 16. 90Snyder, "Toby Shows," p. 70. 43 In fact, Mickel and Slout, the major historians of the in- stitution, have relied heavily upon oral histories, letters, scattered newspaper clippings, and memorabilia in their reconstructions of the chief outlines of the era. How- ever, in recent years, it has become increasingly evident that at least one form of permanent record has substantial- ly survived--playscripts of repertoire's popular dramas. Do the playscripts from the era of repertoire, which are now becoming more readily available to scholars, offer an avenue to a greater understanding of the institu- tion and its clientele? Do these dramas embody the value/ belief systems of rural America at the turn—of—the cen- tury? This study will not be the first to seek answers to these questions. Beginning with Robert Downing's pioneering article "Toby” published in 1946, there has been a steady rise in scholarly interest directed towards reper- toire (especially tentqepertoire) and its drama.91 Cen- tral to the discussions that have appeared thus far has been the figure of 'Toby', the rustic, red-wigged, freckled wise-fool character that evolved in the early—twentieth- century from roots in the 'silly—kid' characterizations of earlier popular rural melodramas. Like his theatrical ancestor, the stage—Yankee, Toby had the ability to see 91Downing, "Toby," Theatre Arts, XXX (November, 1946), pp. 651-55. 44 through the hypocrisy and pretense of city-slickers and expose them with a simple turn of phrase.92 The critical studies of Toby and the large body of comedy-dramas that grew up around him have been highly valuable. They have effectively shown the character's relation to dramatic history. In addition, they have be- gun to show some of the ways in which the dramas may have embodied certain social and psychological concerns that were present in rural American society during the era of repertoire.93 Despite their tremendous value, however, three tendencies have been present in these studies that point to a need for further analysis and exploration in this area of popular drama. First, as hinted earlier, there has been a tendency to concentrate upon the drama of the tent-show era and, within that drama, upon the Toby play in particular. This tendency not only neglects the period of opera-house reper- toire, but it also neglects other types of dramas thatwere popular in the tent-repertoire era. Second, there has been a tendency by such critics as Mickel, Snyder, and others to 92For an excellent extended discussion of the stage- Yankee, see Francis Hodge, Yankee Theatre: The Image 9: American pp the Stage, 1825-1850 (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1965). See also Slout, Theatre, pp. 86-88. 93See especially Slout, Theatre, pp. 83—97; and Mickel, pp. 145-60. 45 approach the tent-shows and especially the Toby dramas as elements of folk theatre and folk drama.94 Mickel, for instance, argues that Toby was "the one genuine folk hero of the American theater,"95 and that the rep troupes "nearly succeeded in creating a genuine folk theater."96 But, while this approach has provided excellent insights, especially into the relation of Toby to his audiences, two problems have arisen. To begin with, the studies tend to use the terms 'folk theatre', 'folklore', and 'folk drama' in a generalized, rather undefined way, and there is no articulation of a distinct methodology that is de- signed to deal with 'folk' materials, as opposed to other kinds of dramatic materials. Next, later studies have shown a tendency to repeat the conclusionscnfearlier studies.97 For these reasons, then, there may be indica- tions that a fresh approach with a clearly defined metho- dology is needed to supplement rather than repeat earlier findings. 94Snyder, "Toby Shows," pp. 106-07, discusses "the folk element" in Toby plays. See also Klassen, "Tent- Repertoire," pp. 1-5, where a 'folk' orientation is evident. As his title implies, Larry Dale Clark, "Toby Shows: A Form of Rural American Popular Theatre," Diss. University of Illinois 1963, approaches the Toby plays as 'popular' rather than 'folk' phenomena. 95Micke1, p. 9. 96Mickel, p. 27. 97Cf. especially, Clark, "Toby Shows," and Klassen, "Tent-Repertoire.” 46 A third tendency, manifested by such critics as Downing and Ranney, has been to explain the Toby character and his dramas with reference to a single psychological dynamic--wish fulfillment. Downing states that Toby was "based carefully on dream fulfillment,"98 while Ranney calls Toby "the yokel who made sport of the evil smoothie in a manner that country people would like to try, but sel— dom dare to."99 Neither critic offers any other interpre- tations of the cultural dynamics contained in the Toby dramas. There can be no doubt that there is validity to such psychological interpretations of the Toby phenomenon, but they simply do not go far enough. As the next chapter of this study will attempt to show, popular dramas perform other functions in a culture besides the psychological ones. The addition of other cultural and social inter- pretations to the discussion of repertoire drama may supple- ment the psychological interpretations that Downing, 100 Ranney, Slout, and others have already provided. In Chapter II, a methodology will be advanced that 98Downing, "Toby," p. 653. 99Ranney, "Forever Toby," p. 95. 100Slout, Theatre, p. 83, relates to wish-fulfill- ment dynamics with respect to Toby; however, he, unlike the others, does give other explanations for the success and popularity of the phenomenon. 47 may provide the field of repertoire scholarship with an effective supplement to previous studies and a possible corrective to the tendencies outlined above. The method- ology, which will be an adaptation of John G. Cawelti's 'concept of formula' methodology, may prove effective for three reasons.101 First, the method provides a framework for dealing with large numbers of individual works and generalizing their characteristics. This framework will permit the examination and criticism of a broader range of materials from both the tent-show and the opera house era than have previously been treated. Second, since the method will regard the dramas as examples of popular drama, rather than £915 drama, the possibility of fresh perspec- tives is heightened. While the next chapter will provide insights into the nature of popular drama, the following definition of 'popular art' by Stuart Hall and Paddy Whannel may serve as prologue to later discussion: "Popular art is essentially a conventionalized art which restates in in- tense form, values and attitudes already known; which re- assures and reaffirms, but brings to this something of the surprise of art as well as the shock of recognition."102 101John G. Cawelti, "The Concept of Formula in the Study of Popular Literature," Journal 9; Pepular Culture, III, 3 (Winter, 1969), pp. 381-90. 102Hall and Whannel, The popular Arts: A Critical Guide 32 Mass Media (Boston: Beacon Press, 1967), p. 66. 48 Third and finally, the method will stress the ways that popular dramas synthesize a number of differing social, cultural, and psychological functions; hence, the tendency to overstress the importance of a single psychological dy- namic such as wish-fulfillment hopefully will be avoided. CHAPTER II TOWARDS THE DEVELOPMENT OF A FORMULA APPROACH TO POPULAR DRAMA With the growing acceptance of Popular Culture as a respectable academic discipline, some rather strange bed- fellows have been created. Critics and scholars from far- flung and diversified backgrounds have found a common in- terest in such phenomena as the Western, the spy story, the detective novel, and other popular art forms. But, al- though the objects of interest have often been identical, and although much of the work has been done under the ban- ner of Popular Culture, the critical methods employed have been widely different. Thus, historians, sociologists, psychologists, literary critics, and others have approached popular materials from their own particular vantage points. Viewing this basic dilemma within the field, John G. Cawelti saw a thoroughgoing need for a means of interrelating these various viewpoints within a critical structure that would do more justice to the special aesthetic problems posed by the popular arts. The methodology that Cawelti developed to provide such a unifying critical structure is 49 50 known as 'the concept of formula.‘1 This chapter has two main purposes, each related to Cawelti's methodology. The first purpose is to provide a basic introduction to the concept of formula as a criti- cal method. This will be done by relating the concept of formula to several more familiar schools of criticism; de- fining its key terminology; explaining its underlying as- sumptions; and discussing some of its major tenets and critical precepts. Although this introduction must be re- stricted to the most essential features of the methodology, it will hopefully provide an underlying foundation for the critical analysis of popular dramas that will be conducted in later chapters. The second purpose of the chapter is to begin to relate the concept of formula to the specific demands and peculiarities of popular drama. Cawelti is a humanist scholar with a specialized interest in the popular novel and popular films. His references to popular drama have been neither extensive nor thoroughly elaborated. Hence, the adoption of his theories and methods to the realm of popular drama is a task that thus far has remained unac- complished. In a similar vein, Cawelti expresses his per- sonal regret that as a humanist scholar he lacks the 1For useful introductory discussions of the concept of formula, see especially Cawelti, "The Concept of Formula," pp. 381-390; and Cawelti, The Six—Gun Mystique (Bowling Green, Ohio: Bowling Green University Press, 1971), pp. 1-33. 51 training and ability to substantiate his theoretical speculations with references to empirical data derived from the type of research that a social scientist would be able to carry out. Nevertheless, he feels that his method "has the potential of providing a framework for cooperative in— 2 It is pre- quiries by humanists and social scientists.” cisely this potential for cooperative inquiry that the second part of this chapter will explore. Does formula study offer the field of popular drama a framework for cooperative inquiry between humanist drama critics and those social scientists, for example, who study the effects of televised violence upon youthful audiences? Do the findings and theoretical conclusions of social scientists bear out Cawelti's theoretical specula- tions on popular formulas? How can Cawelti's basic thoughts be supplemented and adapted to the field of popular drama through references to social scientists, as well as other humanist scholars who have studied the popular arts and popular drama? These and similar questions will underlie and inform the second part of this chapter. Towards e Definition ef the Concept e: Formula For two major reasons, the concept of formula may best be understood as a synthesis of several, more familiar 2Cawelti, Adventure, Mystery,and Romance (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1976), p. 298. 52 critical traditions. First of all, within humanistic criticism, the method synthesizes three critical schools: the analysis of genres and patterns of conventions that be- gan with Aristotle's Poetics; the study of myth and symbols that originated in the late-eighteenth and early-nineteenth- century studies of comparative folklore and national cul- tures, and has been carried on in twentieth—century anthro- pological studies; and finally, the tradition of practical, 'how-to-do-it' manuals for writers of popular fiction.3 With respect to the first two of these areas, Cawelti is indebted to the work that Northrop Frye has done in bringing together the schools of generic and mythic criticism, particularly in his Anatomy 9: Criticism.4 Secondly, the concept of formula provides a poten- tial means of synthesis between humanist criticism, in general, and the critical methodologies developed by the field of the social sciences for the study of popular ma- terials. David N. Feldman comments on this aspect of Cawelti's formula studies: The concept of formula methodology was especially well received, perhaps, by the variously trained Popular Culture con- stituency because Cawelti's theories em- braced the social scientists' methodology 3Cawelti, Adventure, p. 316. 4Northrop Frye, Anatomy of Criticism (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1957). 53 (usually content analysis), while exploring primarily literary/humanistic concerns 5 (plots, themes, characterizations, etc.). But, while embracing certain positive features of both the humanistic and the social scientific traditions, Cawelti is careful to avoid certain disturbing tendencies that he sees within each tradition. In humanist criticism, Cawelti feels that critics have tended to regard popular literature as 'subliterature.’ This tendency stems from "the traditional qualitative dis- tinction between high culture and mass culture.” Speaking against such distinctions, he states: Even if one could determine where literature left off and subliterature began. .. the ’ term suggested only that the object of study was a debased form of something better. Like many of the concepts that have been applied to the study of popular culture, the idea of subliterature inextricably confused nor- mative and descriptive problems. As will be shown later, the formula method seeks to replace qualitative distinctions with distinctions based upon the varying functions that different kinds of art may perform within a culture. In the content analysis of the social sciences, on the other hand, Cawelti discerns an overly strong emphasis on certain social and psychological themes such as those of 5David N. Feldman, "Formalism and Popular Culture," Journal 2: Popular Culture, IX, 2 (Fall, 1975), p. 384. 6 Cawelti, ”Concept of Formula,” p. 382. 54 racism, guilt and innocence, or the ideals of progress. He feels that in their concentration upon the presence of such themes the social sciences tend to neglect the total structure of the art works they deal with. This neglect "not only tends to oversimplify the works under investiga- tion, but to lead to a kind of falsifying reduction that 7 A popu- translates one kind of experience into another." lar novel, for instance, might become a piece of social rhetoric, or a revelation of sub-conscious urges, rather than an art work. To counter the tendency towards reduc- tion, Cawelti envisages in formula a "concept that will en- able us to deal with the total structure of themes and its relationship to the story elements in the complete work."8 What is the concept of formula? In a pioneering 1969 article, Cawelti gives the following initial defini- tion: ”A formula is a conventional system for structuring cultural products. It can be distinguished from form which is an invented system of organization."9 In order to understand this basic definition, it is necessary to realize certain implications concerning the terms 'cultural pro- ducts,‘ 'invention,' and 'convention.' 7Cawelti, "Concept of Formula," p. 383. 8Cawelti, "Concept of Formula," p. 383. 9Cawelti, ”Concept of Formula," p. 386. 55 A fundamental axiom underlying not only the definition, but the entire methodology, is that "all cultural products contain a mixture of two kinds of ele- ments: conventions and inventions."10 Conventions are de- fined as those elements that both the artist and his audience are familiar with beforehand--elements such as favorite plots, stereotypical characters, orthodox ideas, familiar devices of language and expression, etc. By con- trast, inventions are defined as those elements which an individual artist uniquely creates--elements such as un- usually structured plots, new kinds of characters, unortho- dox ideas, novel uses of language and expression, etc. In- ventions and conventions perform differing general functions within a given culture. Inventions in an art work or within a body of works tend to insure the freshness and vigor of a culture by asserting new values, novel images, and unortho- dox ideas. They appeal to and partially satisfy a culture's need for variety, change, novelty, and excitement. Conven- tions, on the other hand, serve to confirm and reaffirm a culture's shared values, traditional images, and orthodox ideas. They appeal to and help to satisfy a culture's need for security, order, peace, and continuity of tradition. Since it is difficult in practice to draw precise lines of distinction between inventions and conventions, 10Cawelti, ”Concept of Formula," pp. 384-385. 11Cawelti, "Concept of Formula,” p. 385; see also Six-Gun Mystique, pp. 27-28. 56 the elements are best conceived as being opposing poles on a continuum. No single art work will lie entirely at one extreme end of this continuum. This is because it would be as impossible to create a viable art work that consisted entirely of inventional elements (pure form), as it would be to create a work that consisted entirely of conventional elements (pure formula). Like the grey matter between black and white, then, artistic creation is a mixture of the inventional and the conventional.12 To illustrate the form/formula continuum, Cawelti makes reference to two diverse works: James Joyce's novel Finnegan's Wake; and an episode of The Lone Ranger. Be- cause of its challenging and unfamiliar device of a 'stream of consciousness' narration, Joyce's work may be placed "almost as far along the continuum toward total invention as it is possible to go without leaving shared images be— hind;” hence, it is an excellent example of an invented system of organization--form.13 However, The Lone Ranger, with its familiar plot devices, stereotypic characteriza- tions, and predictable dialogue, must be placed at the other side of the continuum. It would lie almost as far along the continuum toward total convention as a work might go without creating impossible levels of boredom for the onlooker. For this reason, then, The Lone Ranger is an excellent example of a conventional system of 12 13 Cawelti, "Concept of Formula,” pp. 385-386. Cawelti, ”Concept of Formula," p. 386. 57 organization--formula.14 But, if The Lone Ranger exemplifies formula, does it not also exemplify a particular literary genre, namely the genre of the adventure story? And, if so, how may the concept of formula be distinguished from the idea of genre? Responding to such questions, Cawelti observes: In Frye's sense of the term, genre and myth are universal patterns of action which mani- fest themselves in all human cultures. Fol- lowing Frye, let me suggest a formulation of this kind--genre can be defined as a struc- tural pattern which embodies a universal life pattern or myth in the materials of language; formula, on the other hand, is cultural; it represents the way in which a culture has embodied both mythical archetypes and its own preoccupations in narrative form. Depending upon the critic's perspective, then, The Lone Ranger may be regarded either as formula or as genre. If the concern is for universal archetypes (e.g., the hero struggling against the powers of darkness), the term genre would be in order. But, if the central concern includes within its purview certain rootedly cultural preoccupations and themes (e.g., the tensions between settlers and Indians on the American western frontier), then the term 'formula' would be in order.16 To summarize the distinctions between 14Cawelti, "Concept of Formula," p. 386. 15Cawelti, "Concept of Formula," p. 387. 16Cawelti, Adventure, pp. 7-8. Cawelti suggests that the term 'archetype-genre' might be employed to speci- fy the critic's orientation to 'genre'. Similarly he feels the terms 'formula-genre', or 'popular genre' might specify an orientation to 'formula'. 58 genre and formula: genre is oriented to the universal, the transcultural, and the more purely aesthetic; formula is oriented to the particular culture, and to that which is of historical or anthropological interest, as well as of aesthetic concern.17 Formulas arise and persist in a culture, according to Cawelti, because they "bring into an effective conven- tional order a large variety of existing cultural and "18 artistic interests and concerns. As an illustration of how this ordering process takes place, Cawelti speaks in the following way about the Western: To create a western involves not only some understanding of how to construct an ex- citing adventure story, but also how to use certain nineteenth- and twentieth-century images and symbols such as cowboys, pioneers, outlaws, frontier towns, and saloons along with appropriate themes and myths-—such as nature vs. civilization, the code of the West, or law and order vs. outlawry--to sup- port and give significance to the action. Thus, formulas are ways in which specific cultural themes and stereotypes become em-19 bodied in more universal story archetypes. As this passage shows, the success of a formula is explained not with reference to a single artistic or cultural dynamic, but with reference to how the formula brings a variety of such dynamics into a conventional order. A critical ex— planation of how this ordering process takes place will 17Cawelti, Adventure, pp. 7-8. 18Cawelti, Adventure, p. 30. 19Cawelti, Adventure, pp. 30—31. 59 reveal certain basic concerns of a society, as well as some of the ways in which that society deals with those concerns?30 Before turning to some of the specific ways in which the formula methodology enumerates the artistic and cultural dynamics synthesized in a given formula, it may prove useful to review and summarize the basic nature of formula. Formula has been described as a conventional system for organizing cultural products. This system is known beforehand to both the artist and the audience. The formula is part of their cultural and artistic tradition. Just as the structure is conventional and familiar, so too the cultural products it organizes are similarly familiar and conventiona1--stock characterizations, familiar plots, etc. It is because of its dual orientation to the conventional (in structure and in content), that the formula art-work tends to reaffirm shared images, ideas, and values in a culture. Unlike the study of genre which is oriented to universal patterns and sheerly aesthetic concerns, the study of formulas is oriented to specific cultural themes, and concerns that are historical in nature, as well as aesthetic. The main object of formula study is to show how formulas bring a variety of cultural and artistic dynamics into a familiar, conventional order. It is a major tenet of the methodology that an effective critical explanation of how this ordering process takes place will constitute an 20Cawelti, Adventure, pp. 30—31. 6O interpretation of the cultural significance of the given formula. Cawelti states: "Our examination of the dia- lectic between artistic forms and cultural materials should reveal something about the way in which people of a given culture are predisposed to think about their lives."21 In order to explicate the specific artistic and cultural dynamics synthesized in a particular formula, the methodology calls for the formula to be viewed in each of four separate dimensions. Like a prism allowing a viewer to perceive the individual components of a single ray of light, each of the dimensions allows the critic to isolate and analyze an individual component of a formula—-an individual cultural or artistic dynamic that has contributed to the effectiveness of the total conventional structure that the formula represents. The four dimensions reveal the broad, interdisciplinary scope of the formula method; they are: formula as theme and variation (an aesthetic perspective); formula as game (a sociological perspective); formula as social ritual (an anthropological perspective); and, finally, formula as a collective dream (a psychologi- cal perspective).22 21Cawelti, Adventure, p. 31. 22Cawelti, "Concept of Formula," pp. 387-90. See Cawelti, Six-Gun Mystique, pp. 29-33, for a similar discus- sion. 61 A Procedural Model for Formula Studies With the preceding initial reference to the speci- fic cultural and artistic dimensions of formula, this dis— cussion of Cawelti's method reaches an important turning point. Thus far, the discussion has centered around those definitions, examples, and distinctions that are prerequi- site to a fundamental understanding of the concept of for- mula. Henceforth, the purpose will be less to introduce the method, than to explore its possible value as a critical framework wherein large groups of individual popular dramas may be discussed and evaluated. In the contexts of such an exploration, a close analysis of each particular dimension of formula will prove a necessary and valuable element. Prior to this analysis, however, it will be useful to take a brief look at the principal features of the modus operandi 23 This will place the Cawelti follows in his own criticism. particular dimensions of formula in a broader perspective. It will also introduce a possible model for use in later chapters. 1. In the first stage of criticism of a formula such as the classical detective story, Cawelti describes the major conventional patterns of the formula. He analyzes 23For excellent examples of Cawelti's practical criticism, see especially Adventure, Chapters Four and Five, pp. 80-138, on the Classical Detective Story; and Six-Gun Mystique, on the Western. 62 those patterns in terms of four areas: Situation, Pattern of Action, Characters and Relationships, and Setting. In each of these areas, he makes critical comments upon such matters as the rationale behind certain choices of narrative technique, or the dynamics of reader interest and pleasure that are unleashed by certain choices of setting. Of the classical detective formula, for instance, he comments: Doing the victim right is a delicate problem for the creator of classical detective tales. If the reader is given too much information about the victim or if he seems a character of great importance, the story's focus around the process of investigation will be blurred.. .. On the other hand, if the victim seems in- significant and the reader has no information about him, interest in the investigation and suspense about its outcome will be minimal.’ 2. In the second stage of criticism, he describes the cultural background of the formula. Here, he does not seek the universal or archetypal interpretations that a Freudian or Jungian critic might offer, but interpreta- tions that have a clear connection or relation to the period and the culture. Freudian explanations might be useful in illuminating archetypal story patterns in a for- mula, or in explaining exactly why human beings everywhere find fascination in these patterns. However, they cannot account for the particular characteristics of the formula type as found in the culture. "Our hypotheses," he observes, 24Cawelti, Adventure, p. 91. 63 "must clearly account for the distinctive characteristics of [the formula] and must show some fairly clear connection or relation between these characteristics and the period in which the formula flourished."25 Since formula study does not account for the ef- fectiveness of a formula with reference to a single social or psychological dynamic, the hypotheses propounded by Cawelti are usually comprised of at least two major types of elements. First, there are analogues that cite paral- lels and similarities between a formula's conventions and specific historical situations. Second, there are ex- planations of the particular cultural and artisitc functions that the formula performed in allaying certain specific cul- tural or psychological tensions. He observes, for example: Readers of the classical detective stories. .. shared a need for a temporary release from doubt and guilt, generated in part by the decline of traditional moral and spiritual authorities, and the rise of new social and intellectual movements that emphasized the hypocrisy and ggilt of respectable middle- class society. Implicit in his critical comments here is Cawelti's as- sumption that formula stories have the important dimension of being like games. 3. In the final stage of criticism, Cawelti analyzes the central artistic problems of the formula. He 25Cawelti, Adventure, p. 98. 26Cawelti, Adventure, pp. 104-105. 64 discusses factors aside from the cultural or the psycho— logical that have helped to account for the success and effectiveness of the formula. Every formula possesses dif— fering artistic potentialities and limitations, strengths and weaknesses, that may be handled well by one writer and poorly by another. Similarly, an individual writer may have handled these strengths and weaknesses masterfully in one treatment of a formula, and poorly in another. For in- stance, Cawelti makes the following appraisal of Agatha Christie's detective novels: Christie has most successfully combined com- plex detection with a highly functional ap- proach to character and atmosphere. Except when they lose this balance of appeals, as in occasional slip-ups like Third Girl, Christie's stories almost infallibly engross the reader who enjgys the game of detection and mystification. Such critical comments highlight not only the brilliance of individual writers such as Christie, but also the basic nature and operation of the formula being considered. From this brief outline of Cawelti's procedures, it may be clear that the formula's dimension of theme and variation is most relevant to the first and third stages of his critical method. The idea of theme and variation alerts the critic to recurrent patterns among groups of works, and provides a framework in which individual works and artists can be compared and evaluated. Clearly also, 27Cawelti, Adventure, p. 119. 65 the dimensions of game, social ritual, and dream are most relevant to the second stage of criticism. These perspec- tives are of particular value to the humanist critic, since they assist him in taking the social scientific perspec- tive into account in dealing with popular materials. Formula ee Theme and Variation--The Aesthetic Perspective In the aesthetic perspective, the relationship be- tween formula and an individual work is analogous to theme and variation in music, or text and performance in drama. Like a jazz musician bringing new accents to a familiar melody, or an actor bringing original points of interpreta- tion to a familiar role, a formula writer can meet failure in either of two basic ways. If he adheres too mechanical- ly to the formula, he will create impossible levels of bore- dom for his readers. However, if he makes too radical a departure from the formula, he creates confusion and frus— trates the reader's expectancy of a familiar experience. Cawelti observes: "To be a work of any quality or interest, the individual version of the formula must have some unique characteristics of its own, yet these characteristics must work toward the fulfillment of the conventional form."28 Clearly, then, artistic invention is assigned a role in the aesthetics of formula literature that is quite different from the one it has been assigned in the aesthetics 28Cawelti, Adventure, p. 10. 66 of the fine arts.29 Traditionally, a high premium has been placed upon the fine artist's unique vision, his ability to inform ordinary materials with a quality that stimulates the viewer to a new, unexpected experience or perception. This experience is not superimposed from without by conventional genres or formulas, but rather it seems to grow organically from within the materials themselves. Samuel Taylor Cole- ridge observes: The form is mechanical when on any given material we impress a predetermined form, not necessarily arising out of the properties of the material. .. . Organic form, on the other hand, is innate; it shapes itself from within, and the fullness of its development is one and the same with the perfection of its outward form.3 For Coleridge and others, the presence of invention in an art-work reveals a "synthetic and magical power” in the artist, but the presence of convention is symptomatic of mechanical repetition and lack of imagination.31 Instead of creating a unique, unexpected experience, invented elements are assigned the task of intensifying an 29For an excellent, concise overview of the history of aesthetics and literary criticism, see Monroe C. Beards- ley, Aesthetics From Classical Greece pp the Present, (Uni- versity, Alabama: University of Alabama Press, 1975). 30Coleridge, Shakespearean Criticism, ed. by T. M. Raysor, I (New York: E. P. Dutton & Co., 1960), p. 198. 31Coleridge, Biegraphia Literaria, ed. by J. Shaw- cross, II (London: Oxford University Press, 1949), p. 12. 67 already familiar, expected experience in the aesthetics of formula. Furthermore, for such critics as Robert Warshow, the high degree of conventionality in such art forms as Elizabethan revenge tragedies, Restoration comedies, or American gangster films actually contributes to the enduring successes of these forms. Warshow states: For such a type to be successful means that its conventions have imposed themselves upon the general consciousness and become a ve- hicle of a particular set of attitudes and a particular aesthetic effect. One goes to any individual example of the type with very definite expectations, and originality is to be welcomed only in the degree that it in- tensifies the expected experience without fundamentally altering it. Cawelti lists three major techniques employed by successful formula writers to intensify the familiar, ex- 33 First, there is pected experience of a given formula. the technique of revitalizing stereotypical characters by the addition of either seemingly contrary traits or various kinds of human frailties and eccentricities. Arthur Conan Doyle, for example, presents in Sherlock Holmes many of the stereotypes of the man of reason. Holmes is detached, highly observant, and meticulously logical. But, these traits are balanced by other seemingly contrary traits. He is also a moody romantic, who takes drugs, daydreams endless- ly, and toys aimlessly with a violin.34 A second 3ZWarshow, The Immediate Experience (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday Anchor Books, 1964), p. 85. 33 34 Cawelti, Adventure, pp. 11-17. Cawelti, Adventure, pp. 11-12. 68 revitalization technique is to stress "immediate and in- tense kinds of excitement and gratification as opposed to the more complex and ambiguous analyses of character and motivation that characterize mimetic literature."35 This technique allows the audience to experience novelty and ex- citement within the recognizable and secure structure of the formula. A third intensification technique involves the in- troduction of extremely high levels of suspense. The writers create suspense by alternating between two tactics. On the one hand, they provide subtle points of reassurance that they are, indeed, working within a familiar formula. On the other, they continually sow seeds of doubt, curiosity, and anxiety as to how matters will be resolved. Audiences are prompted to think that perhaps this time the ending will be different, because of the skillful exercise of this technique. Cawelti comments that formulas can gener- ate much higher levels of suspense than fine art works: ..iifweperceive the world of the story as an imitation of the ambiguous, uncertain, and limited world of reality, we are emo- tionally prepared for difficulties to remain unsolved . . . But if we are encouraged to per- ceive the story world in terms of a well- known formula, the suspense effect will be more emotionally powerful begause we are so sure that it must work out. The tension between audience certainty that a formula will end a certain expected way and doubt and anxiety as to the 35Cawelti, Adventure, p. 14. 36 Cawelti, Adventure, p. 17. 69 outcome is an important key to the successful operation of melodramatic formulas; hence, it will be discussed from other perspectives in later chapters. Formula ee Game--The Sociological Perspective It is an obvious fact that the popular arts pro- vide the masses with enjoyment, as well as a sense of es- cape from the routine doldrums of their daily lives. But, what are the mechanisms that underlie that enjoyment and escape? Why is it, for example, that millions of people enjoy watching a television detective battling one crimi- nal after another, week after week, year in and year out, when they know before each episode that the detective will emerge relatively unscathed and totally victorious from that episode? For Cawelti, mass audiences enjoy the episode part- ly because the formula it contains has the dimension of 37 Formulas are like games for two being a kind of game. major reasons. To begin with, like sporting events, card games, or games of chess, formulas unfold a familiar pat- tern of experience--excitement, suspense, and release. As in games, this pattern is unfolded in accordance with a set of rules governing goals or objectives, numbers of partici- pants, space, time, and conduct. Cawelti describes a Western in terms of its game dimension: 37Cawelti, "Concept of Formula," p. 389. 70 A western is a three-sided game played on a field where the middle line is the frontier and the two main areas of play are the settled town and the savage wilderness. The three sides are the good group of townspeople who stand for law and order, but are handicapped by lack of force; the villains who reject law and order and have force; and the hero who has ties with both sides. The object of the game is to get the hero to lend his force to the good group and to destroy the villain. Various rules determine how this can be done; for example, the hero cannot use force unless strongly provoked. Also like games, the for- mula always gets to its goal. Someone must win and the story must be resolved. Aside from their familiar patterns, rules, and goals, formulas also resemble games in the type of escape that they provide. Through their empathetic response to characters in a formula work, audiences not only escape from their own worlds, but they also enter vicariously into a world that is essentially different from their own. The formula world is one that transcends the petty annoyances and aggravations of the real world. But, beyond this, it is also a world in which tensions, conflicts, and problems are always ultimately resolved. Contemplating such a world, the viewer experiences an ego-enhancement "through the temporary resolution of inescapable frustrations and 39 tensions through fantasy." The French sociologist Jean Piaget influenced Cawelti's thought with the following words: 38Cawelti, "Concept of Formula," p. 389. 39Cawelti, "Concept of Formula," p. 389. See also Six-Gun Mystique, p. 32, for a similar discussion. 71 In play,.. .conflicts are transposed in such a way that the ego is revenged, either by suppression of the problem or by giving it an effective solution.. ..It is because the ego dominates the whole universe in play that it is freed from conflict.40 Piaget's phrase 'effective solution' is an apt phrase for the final endings of the melodramatic formulas that will be considered later in this study. For, as Eric Bentley points out, the vision of melodrama corresponds to a "magical phase" in,a child's life "when thoughts seem omni- potent, when the distinction between 'I want to' and 'I can' is not clearly made.”41 Before leaving the game dimension, one further item merits definition and brief discussion--moral fantasy. Different types of formulas present different idealized worlds. Moral fantasy is that particular element in the world of a formula that makes that world different from the real world.42 Romance formulas present the moral fantasy that love will conquer any and all obstacles. Adventure formulas portray a world in which the hero is invariably able to overcome obstacles to achieve some important mission. Mystery formulas present a universe in which problems always 40Piaget, as quoted by Eric Larrabee and Rolf Meyer- sohn, eds., Mass Leisure (Glencoe, 111.: Free Press, 1958), p. 71. 41Bentley, The Life 9: the Drama (New York: Atheneum, 1972), p. 217. 42This definition is based on Cawelti's discussion of moral fantasy in Adventure, Chapter Two, "Notes Toward a Typology of Literary Formulas," pp. 37-50. 72 have "a desirable and rational solution."43 Finally, melo- dramatic formulas show a world in which a series of actions, complex ambiguities, and tragedies ”ultimately reveal the operation of a benevolent, humanly oriented moral order."44 Within a formula, the element of moral fantasy is the key element that promotes the important ingredient of escapism in the work. Within the formula methodology, the element of moral fantasy provides a means of categorizing individual works within a large body of popular materials.45 Formula ee Social Ritual--The Anthropological Perspective According to Cawelti, the popular arts and the mass media have increasingly taken on a function that once be- longed to religious ritual in more homogeneous cultures-- "articulating and reaffirming the primary cultural values. For this reason, then, he views formula stories as having the dimension of social or cultural ritual. Of course, both the origins and the structural nature of drama have been strongly associated with the idea of ritual since Gilbert Murray's pioneering ”Excursus on the 43Cawelti, Adventure, p. 43. 44Cawelti, Adventure, p. 45. 45Cawelti, Adventure, pp. 37-39. 46Cawelti, ”Concept of Formula," p. 388. 73 47 For Ritual Forms in Greek Tragedy" appeared in 1912. this reason and others, the ritual dimension of formula will be of particular relevance and importance to this study of popular drama. However, it shall not be necessary to discuss, for example, the ritualistic origins of Greek drama. This is a complex story that has been the subject of several major works.48 But it will be a matter of some importance to discover whether or not popular dramas actually do perform functions basically similar to those performed by ritual in other cultures. The relation between modern popular drama and the ritual, myth, and folklore of traditional cultures has been thoroughly examined by J. S. R. Goodlad in his IMe Sociology e: Popular Drama.49 In line with his stated pur- pose of providing "a prolegomena for a thorough sociologi- cal investigation into the place of popular drama in society;"50 Goodlad employs the scientific method in dealing with the question of whether dramas perform 47Murray, ”Excursus on the Ritual Forms in Greek Tragedy," In Jane E. Harrison, Themis: A Study 91 the Social Origins 9; Greek Religion (London: Merlin Press, 1963). 48See especially Francis Fergusson, gee Idea 9: e Theatre (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1949); and, Benjamin Hunningher, The Origin pf Theatre (New York: Hill and Wang),196l. 49The Sociology 9: Popular Drama (Totawa, N.J.: Rowman and Littlefield, 1972). 50 Goodlad, p. 188. 74 ritualistic functions. He formulates a set of hypotheses; draws certain deductions from those hypotheses; and, then, sets out to empirically prove the hypotheses with content . 51 analys1s. Simply stated, Goodlad's hypothesis took the fol— lowing form: If the theory is correct that popular dramas have assumed functions once fulfilled by ritual, then cer- tain principal features should be discoverable in all forms of genuinely popular drama. Now, in order to specify the exact nature of the features that would be included, Goodlad made a careful study of the leading theoretical findings on the nature and the functions of ritual and myth in other cultures. A broad range of scholars and theoreti- cians from both humanism and the social sciences are cited as authorities for the following list of principal features found in Goodlad's hypothesis:52 First, the drama should inform the community about social structure--particularly about the moral rules (as opposed to detailed legal codes) necessary for the smooth running and survival of the community. Secondly, popular drama will contain expres- sion of emotion at repressed items in the cul- ture. Where individual goals, motives, lusts, 51Goodlad carefully elucidates his methodology at several points in his study. See, for example, pp. 1-10. 52Among the humanist critics cited were Eric Bentley and Northrop Frye; among anthropologists and other social scientists, E. Durkheim and Clyde Kluckhohn; and, among mass communications experts, P. F. Lazarfield and R. K. Merton. In drawing upon such a diversity of humanist and scientific thinkers, Goodlad exemplifies the type of interdisciplinary, cooperative inquiry advocated by Cawelti, Adventure, p. 298. 75 aspirations pull against the conformity re- quired for social stability, drama will deal with these goals and motives in a form of social argument. . . . Thirdly, whatever the apparent conflicts in the popular dramas may be, it is likely that the latent conflicts will be those present in the real life of the community. For example, private citizens may not undergo the dramatic tribulations of the characters in Westerns, or detective stories; but the conflicts in those fictions are likely to result from the same anti-social impulses as those encountered by the viewers in their social lives.5 These principal features were, of course, the characteristic functions attributed to ritual by the humanist scholars and social scientists. In the second stage of his scientific method, Good- lad derived a rather lengthy set of deductions from the initial hypothesis. These deductions predicted the speci- fic elements of dramatic content that would be discernible in dramas, if the initial hypothesis were true. Hence, each of the three principal features gave rise to its own set of deductions involving such matters as theme, character, and other matters of content. The first feature, for ex- ample, was handled in the following way: If one of the tasks of drama is to inform members of the community about social struc- ture, emphasis in characterization is likely to be on stereotypes rather than on the in- dividuality of particular persons. It is likely that characters will be required whose social status and anticipated activity 53Goodlad, p. 179. 76 can be readily identified, so that their interrelationshi s in social structure may be contemplated. 4 In the testing or verification stage of his scienti- fic methodology, Goodlad conducted a systematic content analysis of 114 British popular dramas that were performed on British television and in theatres in London's West End. Although a detailed description of Goodlad's methods of audience and content analysis would be cumbersome to relate, it may be stated that his methods seem to involve two basic steps.55 In the first step, the plays were analyzed according to the presence of several specific content cate- gories or dimensions: A) Themes; B) Play types; C) Goals and motives of the characters; D) Setting; and E) Ending. The findings from this analysis were finalized and listed in the following statistical format: 1. Plays containing either morality themes or love themes or both account for 79 per- cent of all plays. 2. The morality plays deal with transgres- sions against society. Most commonly the transgressors are motivated by a desire for more than reasonable power (social control), a desire for money, the wish for revenge for some (supposed) wrong, and illicit sex. 3. The love plays deal with problems raised by monogamy. In the next step, these findings were compared with the 54Goodlad, p. 172. 55For a detailed description of Goodlad's content analysis techniques, see Goodlad, Chap. VII, "The Drama of Reassurance," pp. 140-77. 56Goodlad, pp. 167-68. 77 deductive predictions, in order to discern which predic- tions were supported by the evidence of the content analy- sis. It was Goodlad's conclusion that the content analy- sis did support the three hypotheses concerning the prin- cipal features of popular drama: 1. That popular drama is a technique (ex- pressive or instrumental) of organizing social experience; 2. That popular drama informs about social structure--particularly the moral relation- ships between individuals in a society upon which the structure of that society depends for its existence; 3. That popular drama expresses emotion at items of private experience (goals/motives) that must be gepressed in the interests of social order. 7 Thus, through the scientific, empirical method of content analysis, Goodlad demonstrated that popular dramas have taken over the functions once performed by myth and ritual in more traditional cultures. For several reasons, Goodlad's work represents an important supplement to a study that seeks to adapt the concept of formula to popular drama. To begin with, Good- lad provides a good measure of verification for Cawelti's speculative theories concerning the ritualistic dimension of formula. Secondly, he amplifies and clarifies the meaning and the significance of the dimension by detailing 57Goodlad, pp. 176-77. 78 the specific ways in which ritual elements function in a culture. In practical criticism, the formula critic may find valuable guidelines for discerning the cultural sig- nificance of a formula in Goodlad's discussion of ritual. Finally, in his content analysis, Goodlad gave an inter- esting and helpful model of a scientific approach to large bodies of dramas. Reference to this model may alert the humanist critic to the types of themes, characters, and settings that have cultural, as well as artistic signifi- cance . Formula ee Collective Dream--The Peychological Perspective A final type of function synthesized by formulas is a psychological one. Cawelti regards formulas as having the dimension of "a kind of collective dreaming process." He observes: Formula stories seem to be one way in which the individuals in a culture act out certain unconscious or repressed needs, or express in an overt symbolic fashion certain latent motives which they must give expression to, but cannot face openly.5 In another brief reference to the dream dimension, he com- ments that formulas enable audiences "to explore in fantasy the boundary between the permitted and the forbidden and to experience in a carefully controlled way the possibility of stepping across this boundary."59 Unfortunately, however, 58 59 Cawelti, ”Concept of Formula,” p. 390. Cawelti, Adventure, p. 35. 79 these basic thoughts have not been elaborated thus far in Cawelti's work; hence, for additonal perspectives on an area of particular relevance to popular drama, it will be useful to turn to the writings of sociologist H. D. Duncan. In his Communication and Social Order, Duncan argues that the arts in general and especially the dramatic arts perform functions in a society that are highly analogous to those performed by dreams and fantasy in the individual.‘30 He states that "if the dream is the guardian of sleep, art is the guardian of social order."61 A dream is a form of communication. It is an address in the form of a drama to an audience of one--the dreamer. At one and the same time, the dreamer enacts the roles of playwright, director, actor, audience, and critic. In these dream-dramas, the unconscious communicates in a symbolic way with the con- scious mind concerning unfulfilled wishes, unresolved ten- sions, gnawing doubts, etc. One of the most common struc- tures or themes found in the drama of dreams is that of conflict between the 'id' and the 'superego'. The id represents the part of the personality that seeks unres- trained pleasure and gratification; the superego represents the part that inculcates the restraining influences of parental and societal discipline and authority. Duncan 60Hugh Dalziel Duncan, Communication and Social Order (New York: Oxford University Press, 1970), esp. pp. 280-311. 61Duncan, p. 282. 80 notes that in cases in which inner conflict between vari- ous parts of the inner self reaches inordinate levels, a psychoanalyst might advise the person to give vent to his feelings in an overt manner. The psychoanalyst "styles him-y self as an audience of a certain kind and we play out our hate before him."62 This acting out process enables the patient to confront his inner feelings, because they have been been externalized and given a physical form. The arts and drama perform similar functions for society as a whole. They provide a communal self-address that is similar to the private self-address of dreams in several key ways. Just as dreams promote psychic balance through communication, so too dramas promote social order and balance by providing a means of communication between individuals from varying sectors of society. This communi- cation allows an individual to experience roles, attitudes, and problems that lie beyond the realms of his own social sector.63 Secondly, just as dreams often present conflicts between principles of authoritative restraint and other parts of the personality, so too dramas often deal with questions of social authority and control. In parades, pageants, civic ceremonials, and other community dramas, for example, a society not only celebrates its principles of social hierarchy, but actually creates such principles 62Duncan, p. 283. 63Duncan, p. 79. 81 as well.64 Finally, comic drama “institutionalizes doubt and question" by providing a context in which disrespect towards both authority figures and the principles of author- ity is sanctioned. Duncan cites Bob Hope's ribbing of the President as an example of how "jokes create comic forms which we use to ward off threats to social order."65 Finally, just as a dreamer experiencing inner tur- moil may benefit from giving external form to his feelings, so too a community may benefit from having its latent, un- resolved tensions and impulses given external, physical form in drama. Duncan observes that through the arts and drama, ”we become audiences to ourselves through others."66 In this process, a society creates characters who personify some personality trait, behavioral quality, or moral at— titude that the society may find either extremely attractive or extremely repulsive. Duncan explains: Confrontation and projection are much the same. . . . In tragedy and comedy, villains and fools are reviled, pursued, tortured, and killed.... We create objects we can act toward. In projection we ascribe to others faults we cannot express or can face only with great difficulty in ourselves. The projection is made to create a staged char- acter, a projected self, that we can cgiti- cize, revile, praise, blame, or curse. 7 64Duncan, pp. 264-65. 65Duncan, p. 387. 66Duncan, p. 283. 67Duncan, p. 283. 82 For all of these reasons, then, the functions performed by the arts and drama in a society are directly analogous to the functions performed by dreams in the individual per- son. As Goodlad has done with respect to the dimension of ritual, Duncan provides a wide range of insights and perspectives that amplify and clarify the basic specula- tions that Cawelti makes with respect to the dream dimen- sion of formula. In addition, because of his extensive references to drama's role in creating social order, Duncan provides the humanist critic with valuable insights into the social and psychological implications of drama in a society. Summary The concept of formula . . . is a means of generalizing the characteristics of large groups of individual works from certain com- binations of cultural materials and arch- typal story patterns. It is useful primarily as a means of making historical and cultural inferences about the collective fantasies shared by large groups of people and of identifying differences in these fantaeies from one culture or period to another. 8 Perhaps, the best word to describe and summarize Cawelti's methodology is the word 'synthesis.' Within humanism, the concept synthesizes elements of traditional 68Cawelti, Adventure, p. 7. 83 genre criticism, anthropological or mythic criticism, and practical 'how-to-do-it-manual' criticism. Beyond this, the concept offers a framework in which theOries and methods of humanism may be synthesized with the theories and methods of the social sciences. The main basis of this framework is the idea of formula--a conventionalized system for or- ganizing conventional artistic and cultural products. Furthermore, formulas effectively synthesize sever- al cultural, psychological, and aesthetic functions in a society. First, the conventional structures of formula perform cultural functions akin to those of such conven- tional structures as games, spectator sports, and social rituals. Like these cultural phenomena, formulas provide the masses with escape and a measure of ego-enhancement. Second, formulas function in a culture in ways that are analogous to the ways in which dreams function in an indi- vidual. Just as various parts of the psyche communicate with one another in dreams especially concerning matters of self—restraint vs. liberty, so various parts of society communicate on vital community matters such as morality, authority, and social hierarchy through formula stories and dramas. Finally, formulas perform aesthetic functions in a culture. But, unlike traditional aesthetics which re- gard the function of artistic originality, or invention, as that of producing an unexpected experience of artistic materials, the aesthetics of formula views the function of 84 invention as intensifying the pleasure of the expected, familiar experience that an audience has come to associate with a particular formula. In general, an effective critical explanation of the success of a formula will necessarily show the ways in which several dimensions (game, dream, etc.) are synthesized within the formula. It is evident from this chapter's discussion of the four dimensions of formula, that there is a marked com- patibility between Cawelti's humanistic, speculative thought, and the thought and findings that various social scientists have presented on the nature and function of popular drama. J. S. R. Goodlad's empirical research sup- ports the idea that popular dramas function in modern society in a manner fundamentally similar to the way that myths and rituals functioned in ancient societies. Refer— ence to Goodlad's elaboration of the various functional aspects of ritual helps to clarify and amplify Cawelti's basic notion of formula as social ritual. Similarly, Cawelti's basic idea of formula as collective dream may be better understood with reference to H. D. Duncan's writings. Duncan convincingly argues for several analogues between the functions of art in society and those of dreams in the individual. These points of theoretical affinity with Goodlad and Duncan are possible signs that formula study does, in fact, offer a unifying critical framework for an interdisciplinary approach to popular drama. It will 85 remain for later chapters to discern the degree to which theoretical affinity may be translated into elements of practical criticism, and to test the ultimate effective- ness of the concept of formula as a critical framework for dealing with a large body of individual popular plays. CHAPTER III THE FORMULA OF THE INNOCENT OUTLAW Within the popular drama of repertoire, several major types of formulas may be found. The comic formula of 'the wise-fool triumphant,‘ for example, is seen in such late-nineteenth-century 'silly-kid' comedy-dramas as The Country Kid, and in such 'Toby' plays as Toby's pp the Spot.1 The romance formula of 'the children of two cultures' (a happy-ending version of the Romeo-Juliet story) underlies such plays as The Cheerful Liar and The Trail pg the Lonesome Pine.2 Popular dramas that glori- fied the exploits of real-life outlaws such as Jesse James3 and The Younger Brothers,4 exemplified the adven- ture formula of 'the outlaw hero.‘ 1Nesbit Stone Scoville, A Country Kid (New York: S. French, 1900), in EADNC; Toby's pp the Spot (n.p., typescript, n.d.), in Rosier Collection. 2John Arthur Fraser, The Cheerful Liar (Chicago: Dramatic Pub. Co., 1896), in EADNC; The Trial pf the Lone- some Pine (n.p., typescript, n.d.), in Rosier Collection. 3Clarence Black, Jesse James: A Tabloid Pley (Chicago: Chicago Manuscript Co., 1909), in the Rosier Col- lection. A 'tabloid play' was a shortened version of a longer work. Mickel, Footlights on Prairie, p. 220, dis- cusses tabloids. —_ 4The Younger Brothers (n.p., manuscript, n.d.), in Rosier Collection. 86 87 One of the most popular melodramatic formulas was the 'orphan found' formula. This formula depicts the familiar story of the orphan (usually female) who has been separated from her natural parents in infancy, and has been raised in humble surroundings. Brought by fate to the upper-class social environs of one of her natural parents, she comes into conflict with a character of her own age who has been placed in the orphan's rightful familial position. This character reveals various stereo- typic traits associated with aristocratic behavior. The plot is further complicated when a 'voice of blood' recog- nition scene alerts the audience that one of the orphan's parents has tried to conceal the circumstances of the orphan's birth from his social peers. Matters are resolved when the parent casts his fear of social reprisals aside and acknowledges the orphan as his child and rightful heir. This basic formula may be found in such classics of the repertoire tradition as Amyi Child pp the Circus;5 5[Miron Leffingwell], Amy, Child 9; the Circus (n.p., typescript, n.d.), in Rosier Collection. Robert L. Sherman, Drama Cyclopedia (Chicago: Privately Published by Author, 1944), p. 7, lists Leffingwell, a Chicago Manuscript Company writer, with a play of this title. Given the fair number of Chicago Manuscript Company plays in the Rosier Collection, I strongly suspect this is a correct author listing. 88 ‘pp Piney Ridge;6 Lena Rivers;7 and The Noble Outcast.8 Clearly, part of the success of this type of play de- rived from its appeal to the ambivalent attitudes on the part of lower—class audiences towards the upper—classes, inasmuch as the protagonist is raised amidst lowly cir— cumstances, but is crowned with the benefits of higher social station in the denouement.9 An even more rewarding formula to examine for its cultural implications is the melodramatic formula of 'the innocent outlaw.’ A chief reason for this is that, where- as the orphan formula depicts a disruption of an individ— ual's natural ties to his family unit, the innocent out- law formula portrays a disruption of the individual's social relationship with his/her community. This disrup- tion sets a keynote for a type of drama that can embrace 6[David K. Higgins], pp Piney Ridge (n.p., type- script, n.d.), in Rosier Collection. I am certain that this is a reliably accurate version of a play described by Schaffner, Fabulous Toby, pp. 21-22. In addition, Willson, "Mimes and Miners", p. 166, in a reproduction of a 1909 program, lists Higgins as playwright of a play with identical cast and settings. 7Nelson Compston, Lena Rivers (Chicago: Chicago Manuscript Co., 1909), one of two different dramatizations of Mary J. Holmes' novel in the Rosier Collection. The other lists Marie Doran as author, but has no publishing or copyright information. 8John Arthur Fraser, The Noble Outcast (Chicago: Dramatic Publishing Co., 1888), in EADNC. This play, which was commonly played under the title of Jerry, the Tramp, was one of the most frequently performed plays of the opera house repertoire era. For a discussion of the. play's popularity as compared to several better—known classics, see "What are the Best Plays?" Literary Digest XV (April, 1910), pp. 879-80. 9Grimsted, Melodrama Unveiled, pp. 208-09. 89 a broad range of social, cultural, and psychological themes concerning individual impulses and the require- ments of communal living. For this major reason, then, this chapter and the next will single out the innocent outlaw formula for close examination and critical study. This chapter has three purposes: to trace briefly the possible origins of the conventional pattern of the formula in the history of melodrama; secondly, to relate the pattern to its archetypalstructure; and, finally, to describe the specific conventions of plot, character, and setting that were found in innocent outlaw formula dramas which were written and performed during the peak years of opera house repertoire, 1880-1914. The Origins pi the Innocent Outlaw Formula The formula of the innocent outlaw may be initially described as a conventionalized system for developing a basic dramatic theme that had a long tradition in the his- tory of melodrama-—wrongly accused innocence. Popular melodramatists of the nineteenth-century found in the for- mula an effective conventional form and a body of conven- tional material elements with which to construct a fairly simplified, yet potentially exciting melodrama. The main figure of this drama is an innocent individual whose ability to live normally in society is drastically dis— rupted when he/she is made to appear guilty of some of- fence against the legal, moral, or social codes of his/her 90 society. The formula develops the protagonist's basic situation through a specific pattern of action that in- volves certain characteristic events, characters, and settings. The origins of the innocent outlaw formula can probably be traced to the melodramas of Francois-René Guilbert de Pixerécourt, who has been called ”the father 10 Two of his plays warrant of the form" of melodrama. special attention as being, perhaps, the prototypes or original models upon which numerous innocent outlaw dramas were to be patterned throughout the nineteenth century. These plays were Mp Femme e deux maris (1802), 11 and L'Homme e trois visages (1801). The latter play offers an especially instructive and memorable illustration of the essential elements that were to constitute the formula. In the historical melo- drama, the 'man with three faces' mentioned in the title is the hero, Vivaldi, who has undergone banishment from his beloved city of Venice for a crime he did not commit. In his exiled state, he assumes the false identity of Edgar, the leader of a mercenary band in the employ of Venice. As Edgar, he goes to Venice in order to warn the 10Rahill, World p; Melodrama, p. xiv. 11René Charles Guilbert de Pixerécourt, Theatre Choisi, introd. by Charles Nodier. II (Paris and Nacy: 1841-1843). See Rahill, pp. 47—48, 50—51, for discussion of these plays. 91 Doge, the authority figure in the city, of an assassina- tion plot being laid against him by his arch-enemy, Orsino. He then shifts to a third identity as the bandit, Aballino, whom Orsino has hired to assist in the assassina- tion and the overthrow of the Republic. As Aballino, he visits Orsino and assists the villain as he makes plans to assassinate the Doge at a grand session of the Council. At that session, Vivaldi throws off his bandit disguise and reveals that he has returned to save the Doge, pre- serve the State, and redeem himself in the eyes of his fellow Venetians. Even in this capsulized description of Pixerécourtfis early plot, there emerge the key elements of a pattern that was to become familiar to nineteenth-century popular audiences. These elements were: the false accusation of the protagonist; his exile; his new identity/new life in exile; the reappearance of the villain in the new life of the protagonist; the critical presence of an authority figure; the struggle against the villain; and the public redemption of the protagonist coupled with the public de- feat of the villain. In Me Femme p deux maris, Pixerécourt presents an influential major variant on the structure outlined above. This variant will be called 'the cruelly decieved heroine' plot. In a certain sense, this variant might be regarded as the female protagonist's equivalent of the wrongly ac- cused hero plot found in L'Homme e trois visages, but an 92 important qualification must be added. It should be noted that heroines were not restricted to this variant of the formula. Occasionally, heroines such as Coelina in Pixerécourt's Coelina, ou L'Enfant du mystere (1800), or Therese in Victor Ducage's Therese, pp l'Orpheline de Geneve (1820) were falsely accused of murder.12 Such heroines, therefore, were the protagonists of plots which are more strictly akin to L'Homme e trois visages. More typically, however, heroines were involved in some mysterious, rather dubious marital situation that surfaces in their new life to create the same type of problems caused by false accusations in the lives of wrongly ac- cused heroes. Such was the case with Eliza, the heroine of Me Femme p deux maris. At the rise of the curtain, Eliza is happily mar- ried to Count de Fersen, but she conceals from him any knowledge of her previous marriage to the villainous crim- inal, Isidor Fritz. She had run off with Fritz and mar- ried him in a youthful defiance of her father's authority. But, after the marriage, Fritz had mistreated her, deserted her,:uui,later, had apparently died in prison. Now, in her new life/new identity, her blind father and her son (by Fritz) of fifteen are living on her husband's estate, but 12For detailed discussions of these plays, see Rahill, pp. 30-39, 55-56. 93 she cannot acknowledge them as her flesh and blood. The father is a memorably poignant authority figure in the play. At one point, Eliza pleads to her father for for- giveness speaking of herself in the third person. To complicate matters in Eliza's life, Fritz ap- pears upon the scene very much alive. The document at- testing to his death had been a forgery. He has returned to launch an elaborate blackmailing plot against Eliza and her husband, the Count. Thus, not only have Eliza's hOpes to conceal her past been dashed, but that past has resur- rected itself to make her an innocent, but very real bigamist. Later, through a series of plots and counter- plots, the forces of good led by the Count eventually cause Fritz to be assassinated by one of the henchmen Fritz had hired to kill the Count. The play ends with the blind father forgiving his daughter in a touching family reunion. Such, then, were the basic outlines of a plot that would be employed to tell similar stories of similarly de- ceived heroines throughout the remainder of the nineteenth- century. Frank Rahill has stated: "The skeleton of the plot was to be used over and over again in melodrama--in Hunted Down, The Parson's Bride, My Poll and My Partner Joe, Nuits de le Seine, and Fairfax."13 13Rahill, p. 48. 94 K The plot of Me Femme e deux maris shares several key elements with the plot of L'Homme e trois visages. Obviously,the element of false accusation is replaced by the heroine's being deceived as to the supposed death of her spouse. She believes herself free of an unseemly marital situation, but, in fact, she remains legally mar- ried and bound to this situation. From this point on- wards, the stories have a markedly similar structure. Shame at what she believes is a past and terminated rela- tionship drives the heroine into exile, just as the hero is driven by a combination of fear of conviction, shame, and frustration at his helplessness before human justice. In both plots, a new life is started. In both, the vil- lain reappears and a struggle ensues. Authority figures play important roles in each type of plot. And in each, the protagonist is socially redeemed and the villain de- feated. Because of these and other basic similarities of plot, situation, characters, and emotional tone, the wrong- ly accused hero plot and the cruelly deceived heroine plot will be analyzed and discussed as closely related species within the more generalized popular-genre of the innocent outlaw formula. The Structure p: the Formula When the characteristic events that comprise the plot-lines of innocent outlaw dramas are placed in a chrono- logical order ranging from the earliest narrated event to 95 the final dramatised event, it is clear that the formula's structure is based upon the archetypal pattern of fall— expulsion-redemption. To briefly describe each of the three phases, 'the fall' is a fall from virtue in the eyes of society. In wrongly accused plots, this fall oc- curs because the protagonist is either falsely accused of a crime by malevolent accusers, or made to appear guilty by dint of highly incriminating circumstances. Cruelly deceived heroine plots portray a situation in which the heroine's fall is associated with her innocent involvement in a marital, sexual, or other inter-personal relationship which is at odds with her society's prevailing moral and social codes. In both plots, the circumstances of the fall fundamentally disrupt the ability of the virtuous protag- onist to be recognized as virtuous within his/her community This disrupted situation in which virtue is not recognized as virtue sets an important thematic keynote for the melo- drama to follow. This is because, as Peter Brooks comments, "melodrama has the distinct value of being about recogni- tion and clarification." He adds: In the drama of the recognition of the sign of virtue, virtue achieves an expressive liberation from the 'primal scene' that re- pressed, expulsed, silenced it, to assert its wholeness and vindicate its right to exist- ence.14 14Peter Brooks, The Melodramatic Imagination (New Haven, Ct.: Yale University Press, 1976), p. 42. 96 The formula's expulsion phase is initiated by the protagonist's reaction to the situation of his fall. The distinctive tone or dramatic texture of the innocent outlaw melodrama stems from the peculiar nature of this reaction. In effect, the formula calls for the protagonist to assume that the burden of the proof of his innocence lies with himself, rather than with his accusers, or with the agen— cies of society-at-large. In other words, the plot of the formula turns on the protagonist's temporary assumption of guilt for the alleged offense, as opposed to his denial or disavowal of it. Instead of facing his accusers and the allegations directly (by demanding a legal trial, for instance), the innocent outlaw elects to undergo one of several forms of self-exile, or expulsion from his com- munity. While the three types of self-exile will be des- cribed later in this chapter, it may be noted here that in each of the three cases the protagonist is forced by his assumption of unwarranted guilt to subvert his identity, abandon his normal social life, and live apart from his normal community. For these reasons, then, the protagon- ist is called an 'innocent outlaw.’ The redemption phase of the formula is, of course, the goal towards which the action of the drama is aimed. The redemption sought by the protagonist is a social redemp- tion. It is not a matter of religious scruples or moral conscience that is at stake, but a man or woman's good name and good standing in society. The human institutions 97 of a human society have proven themselves fallible by mistaking virtue for vice, and vice for virtue. The fal- libility of human justice has cost the protagonist a fair amount of agony, but a private letter of apology from a leading member of society is not a sufficient recompense or acknowledgment. What is required in the universe of melodrama, according to Brooks, is "a public recognition of where virtue and evil reside, and the eradication of the one as the reward of the other."15 Brooks also makes the following observations concerning the melodrama's final scene: With the triumph of virtue at the end, there is not, as in comedy, the emergence of a new society formed around the united young couple, ridded of the impediment represented by the blocking figure from the older generation, but rather a reforming of the old society of innocence, which has now driven out the threat to its existence and reaffirmed its values. The public nature of the innocent outlaw's redemption helps account for the frequent use of trials, meetings, social gatherings, and other social/civic occasions in the latter part of many outlaw dramas. 15Brooks, p. 32. 16Brooks, p. 32. 98 Conventional Patterns p: the Fall Phase Against the backdrop of the above discussion of the fall-expulsion-redemption pattern, the major conven- tional patterns of each phase may be presented. The fall phase of the formula will be discussed in terms of the typical crimes or offenses alleged of male and female pro- tagonists, and the fictionalized legal/judicial atmosphere in which the allegations against them took place. Generally speaking, the story of the male outlaw tended to be more simplistic than that of the female. This was because offenses alleged of males were seldom placed in any marital, familial, or sexual context in which moral or social questions might complicate matters. Males were typically accused of crimes such as murder or theft. The allegations against the innocent hero were often based on trumped up charges initiated by either the actual perpetrator of the crime or his henchmen. The story of the wrongly accused hero, therefore, moved to- wards the revelation of the true circumstances of the al- leged crime; the exposure of the true perpetrator(s) of the crime; and the public recognition of the innocence of the hero, coupled with the punishment of the true culprit. On-stage murders not only added to the sensational aspects of outlaw melodramas, but, sometimes, carried the additional dynamic of making the audience sole witness to the actual circumstances of the slaying. This conventional device was employed in such plays as The New South (1886), 99 The Great Diamond Robbery (1895), and The Silver King (1882).17 Placing such certitude in the minds of the audience was an extremely important key to the operation of the formula, since the certitude made the audience feel superior to the on-stage society in terms of their ability to recognize the signs of virtue and vice. On-stage planning and conspiracy sessions between the villains constituted the corresponding conventional device for establishing audience certitude with regard to theft crimes. This device was employed in such plays as piper e M (1891) and Jedediah Judkins, J.P. (1888).18 In general, theft crimes carried the advantage of being easy to narrate in exposition. Typical theft crimes were bank robbery (Hick'ry Farm), embezzlement (Under 3 Cloud), 17Clay M. Greene, The New South (n.p., C. 1886), in EADNC; Edward M. Alfriend and A. C. Wheeler, The Great Diamond Robbery, in America's Lost Plays, Vol. VIII: The Great Diamond Robbepy and Other Recent Melodramas, ed. by Garrett H. Leverton (Bloomington, Ind.: Indiana Univer- sity Press, 1963), pp. 49-100; Henry Herman and Henry Arthur Jones, The Silver King (England: Prompt-book in M.S., 188?), in EADNC. For discussion of the 1882 premiere of The Silver King and other information on the play, see M. Willson Disher, Melodrama: Plots That Thrilled (New York: MacMillan Co., 1954), p. 107. 18Charles Townsend, Under e Cloud (New York: H. Roorbach Pub. Co., c. 1890), in EADNC; Warren Judson Brier, Jedediah Judkins, J.P. (Chicago: T. S. Denison Pub. Co., c. 1888), in EADNC. 100 jewel theft (Jedediah Judkins), and forgery (The Phoenix).19 Perhaps the most influential model for wrongly accused heroes involved in alleged theft crimes was the character Bob Brierly in the old standard The Ticket-pf-Leave Man.2O Brierly was sent to prison after being duped into passing counterfeit notes by an underworld gang. Upon his re- lease from prison, the gang haunts him once again, but Brierly is aided by the famous character, Hawkshaw, the detective. According to M. Willson Disher, the Brierly character set a fashion in late-nineteenth-century melo- drama by which "convicts were always sure of public sym- pathy."21 Whereas heroes were usually accused of illegal of- fenses such as murder or theft, heroines were typically suspected of involvement in a marital or sexual relation- ship that was at odds with the moral or social codes of the society. Hence, heroines were often suspected of being morally or socially 'fallen', in addition to, or, sometimes, instead of being accused of some legal infrac- tion. These suspicions concerning the virtue of the 19Edwin M. Stern, Hick'ry Farm (Chicago: Dramatic Publishing Co., c. 1891), in EADNC; Milton Nobles, The Phoenix (Dramatic Publishing Co., 0. 1900, orig. copy: right 1875), in EADNC. The Phoenix was one of the most popular plays of the opera house repertoire era. It will be discussed in further detail later in this chapter. 20Tom Taylor, The Ticket-of-Leave Man (London: S. French, 1864), in EADNC. Hoyt, Town Hall Tonight, pp. 98- 102, describes the plot of the drama in some detail. The play will be further discussed later in this chapter. 21Disher, p. 49. 101 heroine are usually based on an incomplete or prejudi- cial understanding of an actual relationship the woman has experienced. Her accusers fail to realize that the woman had entered the involvement with significant de- grees of unwillingness, ignorance, or innocence. When the total picture of the relationship is known, it is re- vealed that someone has either deceived the heroine, kept her from knowing the facts of a situation, or forced her to enter the relationship. Thus, the story of the cruelly deceived heroine moved towards the revelation of the true circumstances of the woman's past association; the ex- posure of the party who has deceived or taken advantage of her; and the reunion of the heroine with the society that has erroneously or unjustly held her virtue in question. Illustrations of these factors at work in cruelly deceived heroine plots may be drawn from the well-known melodramatic standard Way Down East and the tent-reper- 23 toire classic Clouds and Sunshine. In the former play, it is revealed (largely through innuendo) that Anna Moore 22Lottie Blair Parker and Joseph R. Grismer, Mey Down East (n.p., Typescript, 189?), in EADNC. For details of the play's 1898 New York premiere, its reception in New York vs. its reception on the road, and other details, see Quinn, History pp American Drama, I, 241; and Rahill, FL 196 23W. C. Herman, Clouds and Sunshine (Chicago: The Chicago Manuscript Co., C. 1911), in the Rosier Collection. According to a clipping in a scrapbook owned by Mr. Rosier, T. S. Denison advertised a publication of this play in the early 1930's. The play was a tent-rep classic and will be discussed in further detail later in this chapter. 102 has had a baby out of wedlock. Eventually, almost every— one suspects the very worst, but in the climactic scene Anna reveals that the baby had been conceived after a false wedding ceremony. In the same breath, she exposes the villain who had deceived her, Lennox Sanderson. In Clouds and Sunshine, Marjorie Morgan is about to marry the local minister, when it is revealed that she is already married. Not only is she married, but she is married to a degenerate ex-convict as well. Later, however, we learn that she had not been planning bigamy, for she fully be- lieved that her blackguard husband had been killed. It is explained also that she had been forced by her father to marry the blackguard. Particularly since her minister husband-to-be is unyieldingly opposed to divorce, it is a matter of some convenience to her marriage plans when her husband turns up on the scene and is subsequently killed in a brawl. A vital element that exacerbates the plight of in— nocent heroes and heroines in the 'fall' stage of their story is the general legal/judicial environment in which they found themselves. The conventions of popular melo- drama called for the liberal stretching of probability or verisimilitude when it came to such matters as arrests, trials, testimony of eye-witnesses, legal documents, etc. Generally speaking, one was considered guilty until one could prove one's self innocent, rather than innocent un- til proven guilty by a jury of one's peers in a legally 103 constituted trial. Hoyt presents an amusing, yet fairly accurate impression of the judicial codes of repertoire melodrama: The accidental loss of a marriage certi- ficate annulled the marriage. The evidence of one prejudiced witness of shady antecedents was sufficient to con— vict the most irreproachable gentleman of crimes for which he had IN) possible motive. A conviction could be quashed years after by the unsupported statement of the comedian. If A forged B's name to a check, B must serve ten years in the pen. A mortgage could be foreclosed within ten minutes notice. If a man died intestate, his property went to the nearest villain. If he left a will, all his property went to anyone who got possession of the document. Although plots of popular melodramas often turned on 'statutes' that were only slightly more credible than these, it should be noted that it was one of the melodramatist's prerequisite skills to keep the visual and emotional ele- ments of the piece at a pitch that was sufficient to dis- tract the audience's mind from such improbabilities. In any case, however, reference to the fictionalized legal/ judicial spheres is a vital factor explaining how innocent protagonists came to be wrongly accused, and why they felt they could trust only in themselves to prove their in— nocence . Conventional Patterns pf the Expulsion Phase The conventional structures and elements of the expulsion phase will be discussed according to the following 24Hoyt, p. 117. 104 categories: the inciting incident; the introduction of the lover/defender; the first complication and the ob- stacle; the game-like struggle against the obstacle; and the crisis.25 The Incitipg Incident --- An inciting incident is an ac- tion or happening that develops an essentially static situation, thereby setting the plot's pattern of action in motion.26 In the formula, such a situation is that of the fall--a virtuous protagonist is the victim of false allegations or unjust suspicions. This situation could result in various responses by the protagonist. He might, for example, take the matter to court, or decide to shoot it out with the police. Such actions would precipitate different patterns of action than those found in the out— law formula, however. The formula calls for three basi- cally similar inciting incidents, each involving a form of self-exile. The first and most commonly found inciting incident is the protagonist's actual flight from the scene of the 25In approaching the dramatic structure of the formula dramas in this manner, I am heavily endebted to Marian Gallaway, Constructing p Play (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1950); Bernard Grebanier, Play— writing: How pp Write for the Theatre (New York: T. W. Crowell Co., 1961); and Oscar Brockett, The Essential Theatre (Chicago: Holt, Rinehart, & Winston, 1976). 26See Grebanier, pp. 17—34, for a discussion of how situation functions in the organization and creation of a plot. 105 alleged offense to a new social setting. In the new setting, he/she undertakes a new life with an assumed name and, in many cases, a disguise. A second inciting incident might be called an 'in-house exile,’ for here the protagonist elects to remain in the locale of the al- legations, but disguises his identity to avoid conviction, as he fights to prove his innocence. Related to this in- house exile, is the least common inciting incident, in which the protagonist enlists the aide of a clever de- tective who employs disguises and other tricks to prove the outlaw's innocence. Although, at first, the three inciting incidents might appear rather different, closer examination reveals several points of essential similarity. In each case, the protagonist elects to somehow avoid his accusers, rather than meet them in a direct confrontation on the issue of his guilt or innocence. Each assumes, in effect, that pro- testations of innocence would be futile, and that the en- tire burden of the proof of innocence lies upon his own shoulders. Here is where the legal/judicial codes des- cribed by Hoyt above come into play as important motiva- tional factors. Secondly, the three reactions share the element of involuntary exile. As noted earlier, the exile did not necessarily entail a physical departure from the community, for an equally dramatic exile was one in which the outlaw was unable to appear as himself in his own soc- iety. Thirdly, each type of incident leads to pathos for 106 the outlaw, for, as Frye observes, "the root idea of pathos is the exclusion of an individual on our own level from a social group to which he is trying to belong."27 Finally, the three incidents share the element of a trans- formed or disguised identity. Admittedly, of course, the third type of incident transfers the disguise motif to the figure of the detective. Nonetheless, the dramatic effect is nearly identical to the other incidents, be- cause the detective becomes an extension of the virtue and innocence of the protagonist. The flight to a new life in a new social settingvms by far the most frequently employed of the three conven- tional responses. Many repertoire melodramas featured heroes and heroines who, like Gladys Deane in Fairfax (1879), ”determined to bury the past forever, and, changing my name, began life anew."28 Chief among the fugitive protagonists were: Nancy Williams, in Ipe Danites ip the Sierras (1880); Dick Fairlee, in Nevada, pp the Lost Mine (1882); Mary Blake, in David Harum (1898); Helene Grey, in Out p: the Fold (1902); Dave, in The Call pp the Woods (1912); Anna Moore, in Way Down East; and 27Frye, Anatomy pp Criticism, p. 36. 28Bartley Campbell, Fairfax, in America's Lost Plays, Vol. XIX: The White Slave and Other Pleys py Bartley Campbell, ed. by Napier Wilt (Bloomington, Ind. Indiana University Press, 1965), pp. 149-198. 107 many others.29 Each of these characters abandons all hopes for living a normal life within his society and sets out to start life over again in a locality in which he hopes to find anonymity and some degree of normality. Obviously, the outcast status of the protagonist provided playwrights a natural base for pathos and other strong melodramatic emotions. The following excerpts from an uncommonly long soliloquy by outlaw Herbert Craincross from the play Jedediah JudkinsL J.P. will illustrate the types of emotions ellicited. ‘Herbert has fled to a typical haven for innocent outlaws, the Western mining camps. Herbert: Eighteen wretched, tedious months, since the hum of the great city died out of my existence. One might as well be dead as to be outcast from home and friends and the ones he loves better than his own life. Dear little girl, I wonder if she longs to see me as I to see her? I seem no nearer to the goal of my hopes. . . . Go back I must not til wealth is mine! Wealth that mighty lever by which prison bars are broken like the frame of a miner's hut by an ava- lanche. . . . Yes, I must have wealth or the fickle goddess of justice will never come to my long waiting arms. Wealth, or die under 29Joaquin Miller, The Danites (in the Sierras) (San Francisco: Typescript, c. 1882), iH—EADNC;_George Melville Baker, Nevada, pp the Lost Mine (Boston: W. H. Baker & Co., c. 1882), in EADNC; J. Ripley Hitchcock and Martha Wolcott, David Harum (New York: D. Appleton & Co., c. 1898), in EADNC; Langdon McCormick, Qpp pi the Fold (n.p., c. 1904), no extant copy known; W. C. Herman, Ipe Call of the Woods (Chicago: The Chicago Manuscript Co., c. 1912), in Rosier Collection. Each of these plays will be discussed and further described later in this chapter. 108 an assumed name. . . . 'Tis humiliating, indeed, to feel that justice comes from the bottom of a long purse.(IV i 14) Although settings will be discussed in further detail later, it may be noted here that the nature and direction of the flight itself seems to have been an important ele- ment of convention; one that may have bearing upon the cultural significance of the formula. The two main con- ventional 'routes' followed by outlaws seeking new lives were: from urban centers to rural areas; and from Eastern or Mid-western 'civilized' areas to Far-Western, yet-to-be 'civilized' areas such as California or Nevada during Gold Rush days. The frequently encountered motif of the protagon- ist employing a disguised identity to prove his innocence was found in such plays as The Phoenix, The Silver Kipg, and Mpdep e_glppd. In each of these particular plays, a disguise was used that brought one of the stock character types of the era (MHX) the stage--the tramp. In fact, in the Preface to the 1900 publication of his phenomenally successful play, The Phoenix, Milton Nobles claimed, “The whiskey soaked modern tramp, with which legitimate and vaudeville stages are now overrun, may almost be said to have made his debut in The Phoenix."30 30Nobles, Preface to The Phoenix, p. 3. Slout, Theatre ip e Tent, p. 28,quotes Nobles as stating: ”No repertoire company, large or small, has ever been on the road without having The Phoenix as a feature under one title or another." 109 Whether or not his tramp was original, however, Nobles made exemplary use of the disguised identity motif for his innocent outlaw protagonist, Carroll Graves. After a fatal fire in his garret lodgings, Graves, a drunken hack-writer, is erroneously declared legally dead. His room-mate's remains have been mistaken for his own. Seizing on the fact that 'Carroll Graves' has no legal existence, Graves determines to rise from the ashes of the death-fire in a transformed identity, like the Phoenix-bird of mythology. During the course of the play, his identity is transformed in several ways: first, he reforms himself of the drinking problem that had reduced him to squalid circumstances; second, he adopts the dis- guised identity of 'Detective Bludso'; third, as Bludso, he employs several further disguises (including that of the tramp and a Frenchman) in order to ensnare the vil- lain, Leslie Blackburn. Such reformations of character combined with disguisings of identity were typical of this variant of the innocent outlaw formula. The third inciting incident in which a clever de- tective comes to the aid of an innocent outlaw was less frequently seen than the other formula variants. The classic model for such versions of the outlaw formula was, of course, Tom Taylor's The Ticket-pg—Leave Man, whose hero, Bob Brierly, has already been described as having received the aid of Detective Hawkshaw. One of the most famous scenes in melodrama was the one in which 110 Hawkshaw reveals that he has been hovering nearby, dis- guised as a sleepy drunkard, ready to come to Bob's aid. In the following lines Bob has just completed a note to his ex-employer to warn him of an impending robbery: Bob: I've finished the note, but who'll take it? Hawkshaw (who has got up and reads the letter over his shoulder): I will! Bob: You? Hawkshaw (pulling off his rough cap, wig and whiskers, and speaks in his own voice): Hawkshaw the detective (gives a pistol). Take this - I'll be on the lookout!(IV i ) The Ticket-pp-Leave Man was a standard bill of fare for small-time touring companies throughout the last quarter of the nineteenth century. It inspired at least one American adaptation, Charles Townsend's The Jail Bird (1892).31 Clever detectives employing a diversity of dis- guises come to the assistance of outlaws in such plays as The Great Diamond Robbery, Jedediah Judkins, J.P., and p Detective ip Petticoats (1900).32 Perhaps the most 31Townsend, The Jail Bird (New York: Dick and Fitzgerald Pub. Co., c. 1893), in EADNC. AS a writer, Townsend was evidently liberal in his borrowing habits, for his Tony, the Convict (Chicago: T. S. Denison, c. 1893) was a rewrite of an English play, T. W. Robertson's Jocrisse, the Juggler (London: S. French Ltd., c. 186?), in the personal collection of this writer. J. A. Fraser's The Noble Outcast was also derived from Robertson's play. 32Sarah Enebuske, (Boston: W. H. Baker & Co., 0. 1900), in EADNC. 111 memorable treatment of the detective motif is found in The Great Diamond Robbery. Detective Dick Brummage re— ceives permission from his superintendent to take Frank Kennet into personal custody, while he fights to prove him innocent of charges of murder and jewel robbery. Part of his battle must be waged against his fellow police officials who have been corrupted by underworld organi- zations and corrupt politicians. As an ally in his ef- forts, Brummage enlists the aid of Mary Lavelot, Kennet's fiancee. The scene in which he comes to the aid of the unfortunate couple is notable for several reasons. First of all, the scene echoes the Hawkshaw- Brierly scene quoted above, inasmuch as it contains the surprising revelation that a seemingly unimportant, seem- ingly disinterested character on-stage during an important discussion is, in fact, the ingeniously disguised detective keeping tabs on the situation and the activities of the outlaw. After gaining entrance to Mary's fatherkshouse in one disguise, Brummage exits and re-enters in yet another disguise as none other than Old Lavelot, Mary's rather senile father. In this guise, he sits dozing by the fire as Frank and Mary discuss Frank's plight of being a fugitive from conviction for a crime he did not commit. The second reason that the scene is notable is involved with the content of the discussion that Brummage overhears, for, in that discussion, two types of communication take place which attest to Frank's innocence-~one, verbal; the other, 112 nonverbal. The silent, eye-to-eye communication noted in the following lines is an excellent example of what Brooks has called ”the text of muteness" in melodrama:33 Frank: I am innocent and you are the only friend in the world that I thought would believe me. Mary: Oh, no! You must have a friend who can ad- vise you and help you. Frank: I thought so before I came here. Mary: Well, in Heaven's name think so yet. Frank: There is not a person on earth who will not believe me guilty after reading the news- papers. (Goes looks out of window) Mary: I don't want to believe the newspapers. I want to believe you. Frank: Mary! Mary:(Looking into each other's eyes) Let me look at you - yes - you are the same Frank to me - no matter what happens. There is no murder in your eyes. (Embrace, C.) Frank: No, my darling, I could not put these arms around you again if they had committed a crime. All that I want you to do is believe "’9' (II.i.64.) According to Brooks, the aesthetics of melodrama rely heavily upon such combinations of full, unrepressed verbal articulations of inner states, on the one hand, and a system of physical, non-verbalized signs that make those inner states legible to observers, on the other. Besides the silent recognition of virtue, other examples of the 33See Brooks, Chap. III, ”The Text of Muteness," pp. 56-80, for discussion of this concept. 113 melodrama's text of muteness noted by Brooks were: the 'voice of blood' recognitions of long-separated kin; the mute tableaux that punctuated the final scenes of acts in melodramas; and mute gestures, dramatic postures, and exag-' geration of facial expression that marked the melodramatic acting style.34 Brooks makes the following general ob- servations concerning the significance of muteness in melodrama: The use of mute gesture in melodrama intro- duces a figuration of primal language onto the stage, where it carries immediate, primal spiritual meanings which the language code, in its demonetization, has obscured, alien- ated, lost. Mute gesture is an expression- istic means--precisely the means of melo- drama--to render meanings which are inef- fable, but nonetheless operative within the sphere of human ethical relationships. The Introduction p: the Lover/Defender Figure --- The next major element of the expulsion phase of the formula is the appearance of a person of the opposite sex who falls in love with the protagonist and becomes his ally and de- fender in the conflict against the forces of the obstacle. This person will be called 'the lover/defender figure.‘ Besides introducing an obvious romance interest, the lover/defender usually performed several other important functions in the formula dramas. First, in the beginnings 34Brooks, pp. 44-49. 35Brooks, p. 72. 114 of the drama and elsewhere, since their romantic attach- ment makes it probable that the lover and the protagonist should become confidantes to some degree at least. Thus, the playwright may provide important points of exposition through the device of the lovers discussing their respec- tive pasts and their prospective futures. Furthermore, such discussions have an effective pathos factor inherent in them, inasmuch as the outlaw will be forced to remain silent or evasive on certain de- licate points concerning his past. Outlaws also found it difficult to make definite commitments or promises when the future of the relationship was discussed. Such scenes as the following between the lover/defender, Edwin Fairfax, and the outlaw Gladys Deane from the play Fairfax were typical. In the scene, Gladys is alone on stage, when she hears Fairfax approaching. She has hoped to avoid him be- cause he has asked her to marry him and is now pressing her for an answer. Fair. (Without, L.2E.) By and by. Glad. Edwin coming! (Rising quickly) He must not see me now--not until my fate is decided. (Enter Fairfax) Fair. Ah, Gladys! Just in time, I see; for you were going away; were you not? Glad. (Embarrassed) Yes--that is--I was going to my room. Fair. Gladys, I have remained away all day for the purpose of giving you an opportunity to think over what I said to you last night. (She goes from him to seat left) Why do you turn away? (In surprise) Have you no other reply? 115 Glad. (Evidently pained) None that I can give you now. Fair. (Bitterly) And when do you propose breaking this sacred silence? (With a forced calm) Glad. In a few days say a week. Fair. (Proudly) Why not say a century as well? (III.i.177) Since audiences knew the reasons for the 'sacred silences' kept by the outlaws in the formula dramas, feelings of em- pathy and pathos ran high at moments such as these. Another dramatic function served by the lover/ defender is that of providing an object of contention be- tween the outlaw and the general society of the drama. The lover is characteristically a very highly regarded mem- ber of the established community. Often, he/she is either literally or figuratively the 'child' of the com- munity. David Bartlett is the son of the leader of the rural community in Way Down East, for example. In a similar vein, one of the major conventions of plays set in the Gold Rush era was to have the mining community assume the role of collective guardian over a long-lost female orphan. This convention is reflected in such play titles (and sub-titles) as Little Goldie, pp the Child pp the Camp (1893); Crawford's Claim; pp, Nugget Nell, Pet pp Poker Flat (1890); and, Tatterei Pet pp Squatters' Gulch (1912).36 In these and other similar formula dramas, 36Charles 0. Willard, Little Goldie; or, the Child pp ppe Camp (Clyde, Ohio: Ames Pub. Co., c. 1893), in EADNC; E. J. Cowley, Crawford's Claim; or, Nugget Nell, Eep pp Poker Flat (New York: Dick and Fitzgerald Pub. Co., 116 the community reacts with paternal protectiveness and suspicion, when their 'child' begins to initiate a love relationship with a mysterious outlaw. One very memor- able treatment of this theme may be found in Nevada, pp the Lost Mine. In the play, community leader Tom Carew is placed in a perplexing dilemma when a detective leads him to suspect his friend and fellow miner, Dick Fairlee, of being a fugitive from justice. He is reluctant to turn Dick over to the detective, because of what he calls, "The miner's law." He explains: We're not man-hunters. Many a poor fellow made criminal by passion or misfortune has drifted among us to be made better by a life of hardship and privation. We ask no man's history. If he be knave or fool, he soon shows his hand, and then he is lost. Miner law is swift and sure. (I i 14) But, although Tom is tempted by friendship and by miner's law to give Dick the benefit of the doubt, he fears that the camp's orphan-child, Moselle, will be endangered by further contact with a man of questionable background. Finally, he decides not to hand Dick over to the detective, but to reveal to Moselle the danger of the relationship before Dick has the opportunity to prove himself 'knave or fool' at her expense. 36 c. 1890), in EADNC, Levin C. Tees, Tatters, Pet pp Squatter's Gulch (Philadelphia: Pennsylvania Pub. Co., c. 1912), in EADNC. 117 The First Complication and The Obstacle --- In the first complication, the protagonist encounters an unexpected circumstance or happening which alters the course of action he had originally embarked upon. Complications usually take the form of discoveries. As Oscar Brockett notes, these discoveries can involve objects (e.g., a hidden weapon), persons (an unexpected arrival), facts (a terminal illness is diagnosed), values (a miser discovers that money is not the be all and end all), or self (a man realizes his selfish motives).37 In any case, the first complication represents a striking revelation that the de- sired objective of the hero will be obstructed by the presence of an obstacle, or impediment. The discovery of this obstacle initiates a series of episodes or cycles of action in which the will of the protagonist comes into conflict with the force of the obstacle. Each of these cycles of action may contain further complications that serve to heighten the tensions associated with the con- flict, until a pinnacle of tension is reached at the cli- max of the play. Viewed in terms of the organic whole of the play, then, the first complication marks the beginning of the middle section of the drama, because the objective initially revealed in the inciting incident is now to be tested against the strength of antagonistic forces associ- ated with the obstacle. 37Brockett, Essential Theatre, pp. 16-32. 118 It is important to note that the obstacle need not necessarily be an individual person. Defining ob- stacle as "the element of impediment which prevents the protagonist from simply taking what he wants," Gallaway observes: The obstacle may be a person, an environ- mental factor, a psychological factor, a factor of heredity, a past action. How- ever complex the obstacle may be, it must be integrated, if the play is to have unity. It must be fairly well-matched to the pro- tagonist, and it must be capable of evoking some emotional response from the audience. 8 These points are of particular relevance to innocent out- law dramas, since the obstacles in these dramas were often an intermixture of a particular person's malevolence and a general societal prejudice against people with questionable or mysterious backgrounds. The most conventional and familiar first complica- tion in the outlaw formula was, of course, the device of having the villain reappear in the new life/new locale of the protagonist. The startling reappearance of Lennox Sanderson in Way Down East has already been mentioned. Another memorable example may be found in Nevada, pp the Lost Mine. Here, the villain turns up in a small, western mining town in the disguise of a detective seeking informa- tion concerning the man he has framed for a crime committed in the East. As the play unfolds, the phony detective, 38Gallaway, Constructing e Play, p. 37. 119 Stephen Carliss, aligns himself with some overly zealous vigilantes to harass the hero, Dick Fairlee. Next to returning villains, perhaps the most con- ventional device for inducing first complications was the appearance of an eye-witness or other party with know- ledge of the innocent outlaw's past. In Bartley Campbell's play Fairfax, for instance, things are running smoothly in the new life of innocent outlaw, Gladys Deane, until a tramp named Webster Winne arrives on the scene. Winne had been an eye-witness to the accidental shooting and apparent death of Gladys' husband and now sees a splendid opportunity for blackmailing her. Sometimes the arrival of the person knowledgeable of the outlaw's past is a harbinger of the subsequent arrival of the villain him- self. In Clouds and Sunshine, for instance, the first hint of complications in Marjorie Morgan's marriage plans comes when the brother of her groom-to-be recognizes her as the wife of a friend in the city. Later, the black- guard husband, whom Marjorie had thought dead, makes his appearance to further complicate matters in her life. It is more difficult to generalize concerning first complications in dramas that portray innocent out- laws who elect to remain in the locale, than in those that concern outlaws who start a new life. The most standard device was that of introducing a sudden revelation that the villain's power is even stronger than the protagonist had originally conceived it to be. This may be due to some 120 piece of incriminating evidence that the villain holds; to some unsuspected skill or talent that he possesses; to some hitherto undiscovered allegiance to a greater power; or to some combination of these factors. In The Phoenix, Carroll Graves, disguised as Detective Bludso, discovers that his arch-enemy, Leslie Blackburn, has some seemingly damning evidence--"a document which will send you to Sing- Sing as a convicted forger" (II.i.55). In The New South, the protagonist, a Union officer serving in the Post-war South, finds his enemies have the trumped-up testimony of an ex-slave to bolster their false charges of murder against him. The play Crawford's Claim features an in- nocent outlaw who discovers that he is not the only one who has resorted to a disguised identity. Wrongly ac— cused Herbert Stanton becomes 'Bud Bunkem' to gain re- venge on Sidney Woodward, who, in turn, has become 'Immanuel Lopaz', a notorious and mysterious Mexican bandit leader. The Great Diamond Robbepy illustrated the motif of a villainess (Mrs. Bulford) whose power seems to grow by amazing leaps and bounds to complicate the plight of the protagonist. The first complication in the play comes with the revelation that Mrs. Bulford, who has murdered her husband and thrown suspicion on Frank Kennet, has a strong underworld organization behind her. This situation is soon compounded by hints that numerous commissioners and politicians are pressuring the police department to convict Kennet. Finally, the web of corruption extends 121 to the U.S. Senate. In summary, then, the first compli- cations in these versions of the outlaw formula repre- sented a dramatically arresting signal that the strength of the protagonist's will-power would be well-matched by the strength of the obstacle. The Game-Like Struggle Against the Obstacle --- From the point of the first complication onwards, the formula drama's dimension as game becomes rather clearly evident. Although it will be necessary to re-examine this dimen- sion from a cultural perspective in the next chapter, the purposes of the present discussion will be well served through its introduction at this time. In the contexts of the game dimension, the struggle between the protagonist and the forces of the obstacle may be regarded as a type of game that might be called 'a guilt game.‘ The object of the game is to place the guilt or blame for the alleged offense upon the opposing party. In order to do this, each party must try to influence the on-stage society's esti- mation of his own moral character, as well as their per- ception of the circumstances and events surrounding the crime in question. With such a high premium placed upon their per- ceptions and judgments, those members of the on-stage society not directly involved in the struggle itself func- tion as a kind of collective referee in the game process. An authoritative figure in the community usually emerges to preside in this collective activity. Such Characters 122 as David Harum in David Harum, Josiah Bumble in Clouds and Sunshine, Dr. Gaylord in Fairfax, and Squire Bartlett in Way Down East may be counted upon to deliver statements that articulate the moral and social norms of the com- munity they represent. Squire Bartlett may be heard per- forming this important dramatic function in the following scene with innocent outlaw, Anna Moore: Sguire: To my way of thinking, there is only one way to live, that's according to the Scrip- tures, and strict abiding of the Ten Command- ments. I couldn't see my way clear to taking a woman into the house with Kate and Louisa that may have strayed from the straight and approved path that's marked out for her. Anna (Starts - Bows her head - then rises, goes to window, wipes eyes, returns): But, Squire, suppose, just suppose, I had been one of those unfortunates who had offended against one of those laws - one who was not guilty of any intentional wrong, more sinned against than sinning. Only suppose such a case, would you still think as you do? Sguire: Why, of course! If a law is broke, it's broke ain't it? If a wrong is done, it's done ain't it? Anna: Yes, yes, that's true. Sguire: Nothing can alter that! Anna: No, nothing can alter that! (II i 6) Through such a discussion, the authority figure instructs the outlaw (and the audience) concerning the moral rules and prerequisites that apply to individuals seeking to gain or maintain membership in the community. For two reasons, this instruction process produces interesting dramatic effects. First, there is an effective dramatic irony, inasmuch as the spokesman is not aware that his 123 remarks have far greater implications for the protagonist than he realizes. Second, the instruction process creates strong pathos for the outlaw, as the audience realizes that through no fault of his own, the outlaw may be found deficient when measured against these rules and prerequi- sites. The rules, therefore, may well constitute a fur- ther barrier between the outlaw and his Chosen society. Whether he fully realizes it or not, then, the authority figure can become an obstacle to the social redemption of the protagonist. Besides articulating the moral codes of their society, the authority figures presides over the collective judging of the participants in the guilt game. This in- volves such tasks as listening to each party's testimony; evaluating the credibility of witnesses; examining physi- cal evidence; considering possible motives; and other similar matters. Since the formula's ending (virtue tri- umphant, vice punished) was known to audiences beforehand, an integral part of the enjoyment of the formula probably stemmed from observing which particular strategies on the part of the respective opponents proved effective in winning 'points' from the presiding referee. Related to this, was the enjoyment derived from seeing which parti- cular tactic on the protagonist's part, or which miscue on the villain's part would eventually bring the spokes- man and his fellow citizens to the final, correct perception of wherein virtue and vice reside in the on-stage society. 124 In addition to game goals and collective referees, another important element of the game dimension of the formula is the matter of the rules by which the game is played. When viewed in the contexts of the game dimension, several aesthetic and generic principles concerning the form and structure of melodrama translate themselves into various rules that govern the terms of the conflict be- tween the protagonist and the forces of the obstacle. One such aesthetic principle, for example, is formulated thusly by Brooks: What we must retain from any consideration of melodramatic structures is the sense of funda- mental bipolar contrast and Clash. The world according to melodrama is built on an ir- reducible manichaeism, the conflict of good and evil as opposites not subject to compro- mise. Melodramatic dilemmas and choices are constructed on the either/or in its extreme form as the all-or-nothing. The 'irreducible manichaeism' in the structure of melo- drama provided the ultimate foundation for several rules governing the types of behavior and actions that the pro- tagonist and the villain might indulge in. First, since the outlaw is the chief representa- tive of the good forces in the bipolar conflict, he is 39Brooks, p. 36. Robert B. Heilman, Tragedy and Melodrama: Versions pp Experience (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1968), pp. 84-86, makes a similar point concerning what he calls "the monopathic experi- ence" of melodrama. 125 permitted to employ only legal and moral means in his ef- forts to prove his innocence and win social redemption. Admittedly, this is a rule that would be "honoured more in the breach, than in the observance." In other words, an audience might not articulate the rule consciously, but they would almost assuredly judge something to be amiss if a protagonist chose to prove his virtue and innocence by employing illegal or immoral methods. Besides, any violation of legal or moral codes on the part of the vir- tuous protagonist disavows his generic right to triumph, recognition, and reward at the end of the melodrama. While the protagonist is restricted to legal, moral means to his end, the villain and his forces are permitted by the rules of the game dimension to indulge in both legal and illegal, moral and immoral means to their end. This situation is due to the fact that the ultimate purpose or end to which the villain's actions are directed is an immoral one. He is seeking to place blame and legal culpability where it does not belong. Hence, even if he employs a perfectly legal, absolutely moral tactic, the basic intention of the villain is corrupt. This option of employing his choice of any type of action gives the vil- lain a decided advantage in the game/conflict with the pro- tagonist. A third rule in the game dimension flows from the tenet of dramatic structure already mentioned in the dis- cussion of the obstacle--that the strength of the obstacle 126 must be well-matched to that of the protagonist. From this aesthetic principle flows the game rule that the con- flict between the two opponents should begin on some note of stalemate. It is important that the outlaw should not appear defenseless or severely handicapped at the time of the first complication. The stalemate gives the impression that the opponents enter the conflict with comparable strengths and similar restrictions. A quotation from the 'stalemate' scene from Ipe Phoenix will serve to illustrate the operation of the rules mentioned above and the stalemating device. The scene features the protagonist, Carroll Graves, disguised as Detective Bludso, and the villain, Leslie Blackburn. Leslie: What, will you murder me then? Bludso: Murder is a poor vengeance. It endures but an hour. . . . I am going to do to you what you did to me: Ruin you in worldly posi- tion, and then strip you of your fortune. But, legally, for I'll strike through your father's Child. If that girl is living, I'll find her and place her in possession of your father's estate. And then, I'll strike at your worthless life--but legally, sir, legally, for in all my dealings with you I'll use no weapon but the law. Leslie: An ingenious plan! It's a pity, however, that I have in my possession a document that will send you to Sing-Sing as a convicted forger! Bludso: . . . Carroll Graves is ashes! The law has said it. The law has buried the ashes of Carroll Graves; ergo, the law cannot send his body to Sing-Sing. . . . Carroll Graves is before you, but none but your own ears have heard the confession and I defy you to prove it! Leslie: I accept the defiance. Let it be a duel to “"“"" l the death' (II.i.54-55) 127 Even the references to duelling help to reinforce the game dimension of the formula drama from this point on in the unfolding action of the play. The Crisis --- As noted earlier, the first complication in a drama initiates a series of minor crises, or cycles of rising action that culminate in the main crisis of the drama--"that moment when all the forces of the play focus for the most vigorous clash and the showdown between the protagonist and his obstacle."40 The crisis in the out— law drama marks the final stage of the formula's expulsion phase and the transition to the redemption phase. In fact, it should be noted that many playwrights employing the innocent outlaw formula kept matters moving at such a brisk pace, that the crisis became scarcely distinguish- able from the climax which follows it, at least in drama- tic theory. The climax, according to Gallaway is "the moving moment when the protagonist achieves or fails to achieve harmony with his universe."41 But, for the pur- poses of this discussion of the three phases of the for- mula, the crisis will be considered separately from the climax. 4OGallaway, p. 56. 41Gallaway, p. 64. 128 One very conventional scheme for building ef- fective crises was to allow the forces of the villain to hold strong sway over the community and to have the com- munity strongly antagonistic towards the protagonist as the crisis scene begins. Obviously, such a scheme created fertile ground for dramatic reversals in which the com- munity turns against the villain during the course of the scene. Plays such as The Danites pp the Sierras, Nevada, pp the Lost Mine, and others set in the Gold Rush era, in- herited a natural and convenient vehicle for collective activity against protagonists and villains alike in the vigilante committee (or 'Judge Lynch', as it was called in the plays). In The Danites, for example, the '49er miners in a small mining town are persuaded by a band of vengeful Mormon assassins to drive a mysterious young hermit named Billy Piper from town. Actually, 'Billy' is the play's heroine, Nancy Williams, who has been relentlessly pursued by the assassins (the Danites, or avenging angels). These men believe it their duty to avenge the murder of their Church's founder by slaying not only the murderers, but their families as well. When the Danites and their evil intentions are revealed by Nancy's lover/defender, Sandy McGee, the vigilantes promptly hang the very men they had been siding with shortly before. A similar reversal oc- curs in Nevada, where a vigilante committee has been duped by villain Stephen Carliss' impersonation of a detective. 129 In another conventional type of crisis, the know- ledge of the repressed element in the outlaw's past final- ly reaches either the lover/defender or the authority figure, causing the outlaw to be threatened with an angry expulsion from his new society. Of course, the audience has been aware since the drama's first complication that the repressed element has been lurking behind the scenes as a potential threat to the outlaw's security. Hence, the crisis scene in which that latent potential is fully actualized may be regarded as the major obligatory scene of the drama. Examples of this type of crisis may be drawn from Way Down East (in which the authority figure is the key figure) and Clouds and Sunshine (in which the lover/defender is central). The crisis scene in Way Down East was one of the most effective and memorable scenes in the popular melo- drama of the period. The scene probably owes its effec- tiveness to the fact that each of the key figures of the formula is present: the outlaw, Anna; the villain, Lennox Sanderson; the lover/defender, David Bartlett; and the authority figure, Squire Bartlett. The Squire has just returned from a fact-finding mission to a nearby town to determine whether an ugly rumor conveyed to him by a local gossip concerning Anna was true or false. A dinner party is beginning as he returns. Sanderson is present and plans to announce his engagement to the Squire's daughter. 130 Unbeknownst to the Squire, his son, David, plans a similar announcement concerning Anna. A blizzard rages outside, as the Squire denounces the woman he had taken in earlier: Bartlett (to Anna): You ingrate--I took you into my house, I gave you shelter when you had neither home nor friends, and now you repay my kindness by coming between me and my dearest wish. Out of my house--you beggar, and never let me see your face again. David: Have a care, Father. . . . You are insulting the woman I want for my wife. Bartlett: Your wife? Who is she? What is she? I Anna: heard it, but I didn't believe it until I went and heard the truth myself. Ask her about the child--the child that is buried in Belden Churchyard--the child that died with— out an honest name. (David sinks. . . . Anna kneels, holds out hands to Bartlett--then to David. Throws hands wide, rises slowly--goes up, opens door, turns.) You found out so much. You found out that I had been a mother--that I had borne a child, and endured the agony of losing it. Did you also learn that I thought myself an honorable wife?--that a villain found me an ignorant confiding girl, and deceived me by a mock marriage? You hunted down the defenceless girl, who only asked the privilege of earning her bread. But there is a man--an honored guest at this table--Why didn't you ask him what his past life has been? For he is the villain who betrayed me! He is the father of ' I my Chlld' (IV.i.20-21) Immediately after these words, Anna leaves the stunned gathering and goes out into the raging snowstorm, followed closely by David. The crisis scene in Clouds and Sunshine is markedly different in tone than that of Way Down East. Whereas the Squire banished Anna with righteous indignation, Rev. Joe 131 Miller employs an extremely compassionate tone in re- minding his beloved Marjorie Morgan that Christian moral- ity demands their separation from one another. Joe had taken Marjorie into his parsonage after local gossips caused her to lose both her job and her home. He had fal- len in love with her, while defending her against the small-town hypocrites and scandal-mongers. However, when it is revealed that her husband whom she had thought dead was alive, Reverend Joe refuses to hear of divorce as a solution to the romantic problem. Hence, the crisis is developed by making the lover/defender's strict moral be- lief in the indissolubility of marriage (even to a black- guard) a seemingly insurmountable obstacle to the continued presence of the outlaw in her new society. The crisis is then brought to a head, when the ex-convict husband, Bill, comes to the parsonage to demand his wife. These elements may be heard in the following edited version of the main crisis: Joe: I feel in my heart you did what you thought best for our happiness and I know you didn't mean to deceive me. Marj; As God as my witness, Joe, I thought I was doing right. Oh, if you only knew how my heart longs for you. It will kill me to give you up. Joe: It can't be helped, Marjorie, you are another man's wife, and-- Marj; But I don't love him. I love you--on1y you. gpe: But you belong to another and it isn't right for you to speak of your love, nor for me to listen. We are treading on dangerous ground, Marjorie, and the quicker we put distance be- tween us the better. Marj. Joe: Marj.: Marj. 132 (Impulsively): We can go away from here, Joe. Let me get a divorce, and-- It's wrong to even think of letting you do it. I would always feel guilty in my own heart. No, Marjorie, there's nothing to do but try and forget we ever met. From tonight our paths must separate. It's the only honor- able way. Very well, Joe, it shall be as you wish. [Tobe enters to announce that Bill has ar- rived and wishes to see Rev. Joe; Joe tells Tobe to show him in.] (Passionately): Joe, I can't go with him, save me from him--save me! Joe (Kindly): He shall not mistreat you in my Bill presence, but he is your husband and I have no right to interfere or try to keep you from him. (Enter Bill) (Gruffly): Hello, Mary! parson I suppose? (To Joe) You're the Joe (Coldly): I am. Bill: Joe: Bill: Joe: Marj.: Bill: Marj.: Bill: Joe: (To Joe) I suppose ye know what I'm going to do? No. I'm goin to take her. She's mine ain't she? Yes. Don't let him take me, Joe! Keep me here-- with you. (Winds arms about Joe's neck.) Cut that out if there's any huggin' and kissin' to be done, it's all comin' to me-— your lovin' husband. (Roughly throws her R.) I loathe and despise you--I won't go with you. You'll do as I say or I'll---(Raises fist as if to strike her. Joe seizes him by shoulders, whirls him around, forces him to knees, then with hands at his throat, shakes him roughly) (In rage) You scoundrel! Dare to raise a hand against her and I'll choke the life out of you! (To Marj.) Have no fear, Marjorie, he shall not harm you. 133 Bill (Angrily): You've got no right to interfere. Joe (Angrily): Then I'll do it without a right. While she is in this house, she is going to be protected regardless of husband or anyone else' (IV.i.7-8) With Joe's move to protect Marjorie in this scene, and with David's pursuit of Anna in Way Down East, the transi- tions to the redemption phases of the melodramas have taken place. Conventional Patterns pp the Redemption Phase The redemption phase of the formula is character- istically initiated in the final stages of the crisis scene. In many cases, the first step towards the redemp- tion takes place when the lover/defender figure, threaten- ed in the crisis with the apparent loss of his loved one, re-affirms his love for the outlaw in strong terms. This reaffirmation marks the first step towards the more total social redemption that occurs with the climax of the play. It is as if the crisis has tested the love relationship, found it true and strong, and wedded the lover to the outlaw's problems. So, at least, the outlaw is no longer faced with the fear of being totally alone in his strug- gles. In the crisis scenes quoted earlier, the begin- nings of redemption phases may be seen in the following places: in Way Down East, when David Bartlett abandons his family and friends to follow Anna into the fierce bliz- zard; and in Clouds and Sunshine, when Rev. Joe Miller 134 lays aside his previous scruples about keeping a husband from a wife and throttles Marjorie's degenerate husband. Essentially an identical pattern is followed in Fairfax. An extended quotation from that play will not only serve as an added illustration of the lover's reaffirmation after the crisis, but as an introduction to the next ele— ment in the redemption phase as well. That element is the climax of the drama--the removal of the barriers be— tween the outlaw and his new society. In the preceding scene, the villainous tramp, Webster Winne, had precipitated the play's crisis by forcing Gladys Deane to reveal the repressed element from her past life to her employer, Fairfax, and his household. When she confesses that "my hands are stained with a hus- band's blood," Fairfax reacts with stunned disbelief and anger. Immediately, Gladys packs her bags and prepares to leave the estate (appropriately named "Paradise") in shame and disgrace. Before taking leave of the man she loves, however, she states that she wishes to tell the true story of her past. She says: "You know part of my past; I feel in justice to myself you should know all." Her long tale of sorrow culminates in a description of her husband's apparent death. The rapid rate at which revela- tions and counter-revelations follow upon one another's heels in the scene may be regarded as typical of the final stages of formula dramas of the period. Glad.: Fair.: Glad.: Fair.: Glad.: fair. 9114-: Fair.: Glad.: Fair.: Glad.: Fair. Glad.: Fair.: Glad.: Fax: 135 One night--your friend, Dr. Gaylord, ac— cidentally found his way to our home, and in the goodness of his heart left me money, ordering him to take my child to sea. (Aside) God bless him! The money--the price of my child's 1ife--he attempted to take from me and in the struggle he was--well-—he was-- (Looking her in the face) Killed! But as I hope for heaven, I did not do it! In endeavoring to murder me the bullet pene- trated his own neck and-- Go on! : You speak the truth! I swear it. (Aside) Thank heaven! (Aloud) And you? F1ed--to New Orleans. There my child died, and I fell ill. When I recovered, I deter- mined to bury the past forever, and, changing my name, began life anew. A sad story indeed. And now, let us say farewell and part for- ever! (With vehemence): No, Gladys! We shall not part! In another land where we are unknown, where no whisper of this hideous past will ever intrude, we will love and live together! (Retreating) No--it is impossible! You do not love me or you would not say so! If all the world were offered in But let us not I should No! Love you! exchange I would refuse it. forget the barrier we cannot bridge. feel guilty at every glance you gave me. No! Our paths lie far apart. After today they will never cross again. (Going, R. 2. E. Enter Gaylord . . . ) This thief is grateful for our clemency and desires to make slight amends. (Enter Winne in charge of Ben) Winne: I wanted to say before I go, that this young Glad. woman did not kill her husband at all-—that she is not guilty of murder, whatever else she may have done! : (Eagerly) How do you know? I saw him fall. 136 Winne: Yes, and cut your stick at once. But I remained behind and nursed him back to life. Glad.: To life say you? Oh, this is glad good news! Fair.: Good news! His life is a greater barrier to our happiness than even his death had been. Glad.: I never thought of that! Winne: No, sir--see there is no life out of him yet! I tell you a tough customer was that James Marrigold. Gay: (Starting) James Marrigold, do you say? Is this his picture? (Exhibiting photo to Winne) Winne: That's him--sure. Gay: Then I can testify to his death. Diana and Mrs. D.: You can? Gey; Most assuredly! He died at the Hotel Dieu in New Orleans of yellow fever. I attended him and he gave me this on his deathbed, with an admonition to give it to his wife.. .. Glad.: (Breathlessly) And he did not die at my hands after all. I am not a-- Fair.: You are the best woman in the world. Glad.: My life! (Rushes, L. ’ to his arms)(V.i.196—98) As this scene illustrates, the climactic removal of barriers between the outlaw and his new society often hinges upon some timely element of 'deus-ex-machina.‘ In Clouds and Sunshine, Marjorie and Joe's problems are re- solved when an angry quarrel with Joe's brother leads to the convenient shooting death of Bill. In Nevada, a better motivated 'deus' takes place when we learn that the detective from back East is not actually a detective at all, but the perpetrator of the crime for which Dick has been blamed. Perhaps the most memorably far-fetched device may be found in The Call pp the Woods. Here, a jury has 137 just pronounced innocent outlaw, David Ferguson, guilty of beating an Indian girl, Hilda. The beating has left Hilda mentally incompetent. No sooner has the verdict been announced, than the sound of a buggy accident is heard off-stage. In rushes Hilda, restored to her proper senses by being thrown from the buggy. She promptly points an accusing finger at the true culprit, Dave's minister brother, Willis, causing the immediate reversal of the verdict and the public recognition of Dave's in— nocence. Having begun with the reaffirmation of the love relationship and moved through the climatic removal of barriers between the outlaw and society, the redemption phase of the formula finds completion with the public recognition of the virtue of the protagonist and the banishment of the villain. As noted at various points earlier, public gatherings figured prominently in the re- demption phases of many outlaw dramas. Perhaps the most effective public recognition scene in the melodramas of the period was in The Danites. After the Danite assassins have been discovered and carried off to be hanged, the door to Billy Piper's hut swings open and out steps Nancy Williams dressed in full female regalia. She acknowledges the cheers of the very men who, seconds earlier, had come to drive 'Billy' out of town. Thus, an angry vigilante committee becomes a welcoming party for the woman who had been forced to disguise herself as 138 a man to survive. Other vigilante committees are simil- arly defused of their original purpose and transformed into the public that recognizes the protagonist's in- nocence in such plays as Nevada, Crawford's Claim, and The Mountain Waif. It is interesting to note that in two of the plays, Nevada and The Mountain Waif, vigilante com- mittees are scolded by law-abiding citizens with exactly the same line: "We are the people and don't you forget it!” (Nev., V.i.55) (Mount. Waif., IV.i.41). Placing the question of plagiarism aside, such lines are reminders of the public nature of the redemption process demanded by the melodramatic formula. Other notable public recognition scenes take place in the plays Way Down East and The Great Diamond Robbepy. In the first play, the guests at Squire Bartlett's dinner party form a search party to find Anna and David, after they disappear into the storm. Hence, when the couple are later found in an abandoned barn, the presence of a large crowd is well motivated. Also well motivated is the presence of Lennox Sanderson, who has joined the search to show his repentance. The Squire turns to Lennox, cross- examines him concerning the false wedding he had ar- ranged, then angrily banishes him from his farm, forbidding him any future contact with his family. With Lennox gone, the Squire blesses his son's bride-to-be and invites her to live in his home as one of his daughters until the wedding day. And all this takes place before the friends 139 and neighbors of the rural community who have joined the search party. The public recognition scene of The Great Diamond Robbery involved a lavish party at the home of the cor- rupt Senator McSorker on Madison Avenue in Manhattan. The Senator has planned the evening's festivities around the grand entrance of the villainess, Mrs. Bulford, who will sweep down a marble staircase at midnight wearing the precious diamonds she has obtained by killing her hus- band. Detective Brummage has made plans for the entrance as well; he has a surprise guest awaiting Mrs. Bulford at the foot of the stairs--a ghost! NMIY Lavelotis dis- guised as the 'ghost' of a maid whom Mrs. Bulford believes has been murdered by her henchmen. The following is a brief segment of the confrontation: (. . . Mrs. Bulford comes slowly and smilingly down the steps, chatting and laughing to the maids. When she reaches the bottom, she is sud- denly confronted by Mary. Fanfare stops. Mrs. Bulford starts, recovers herself and speaks, the maids forming a tableau of astonishment.) Mrs. B.: Who are you? Mary: Susanne! Mrs. B. (Agitatedly): What are you doing here? Mary: Meeting you face to face for the last time. Mrs. B. (Imperiously): Stand aside. I cannot waste words with my servants now. Mary: I have come out of a living grave to con- front you in your triumph and to tell you that the God of Justice reigns even in New York. I cannot stand aside even if I would. (Mrs. Bulford exhibits great distress.)(VLi 99) 140 This device for unnerving villains and causing their downfall was a classic one in the history of melodrama that dates to DuCange's Therese, pp L'Orpheline pe Geneve. The device is yet another example of the mute recognition that forms such an important part of melodrama. The Conventions pp Setting and Character During the last quarter of the nineteenth-century, America witnessed a marked upsurge of interest in elements of 'local color' within the nation. In literature, such key figures as Bret Harte, Mark Twain, Ellen Glasgow, Hamlin Garland, and Joel Chandler Harris sparked a nation- wide discovery of regional customs, dialects, and peculi- arities, as well as an interest in the natural splendors enjoyed by particular regions.42 In drama, the leaders of a similar movement were James A. Herne, who, with such plays as Sag Harbor (1899) and Drifting Apart (1888),43 portrayed life in New England fishing villages, and Denman Thompson, who, as noted in an earlier chapter, inspired numerous imitations with his delightfully comic New 42For an excellent literary history of the period, see Van Wyck Brooks, The Confident Years: 1885-1915 (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1967); for a use- ful social history of the era, see especially J. C. Furnas, The Americans: A Social History of the United StatesL 1587- 1914 (New York:_G. P. Putnam's SEES, 1969), pp. 595-758. 43James A. Herne, Sag Harbor and Other Playe (New York: S. French, 1928). 141 England rustic, Uncle Joshua Whitcomb, in The Old Home- sisal. Like other forms of popular literature and drama, innocent outlaw melodramas often drew upon the various con- ventional elements of character and setting that had been largely pioneered by the leaders of the local color move- ment. For reasons which will be discussed shortly, two particular sets of settings and characters were found to be particularly appropriate for the overall dramatic pur- poses of the formula. These conventional 'sets' were first, the settings and characters of the Western Gold Rush mining-camps that had been invented largely by Bret Harte; and, second, the settings and characters of what was called the ”B'gosh" play--the rural-life drama. The Gold Rush Play --- In 1868, "Overland Monthly" pub- lished Bret Harte's short story The Luck pp the Roaring Camp.44 For Harte's biographer Richard O'Connor, the event signalled "the birth of Western legend, which would grow but never essentially change from the stereotype Bret Harte had presented to posterity." O'Connor describes the Western legend as follows: Briefly and vividly he created a believable world of mining camps perched in the foot- hills in which, beneath red flannel shirts 44Richard O'Connor, Bret Harte: A Biography (Boston: Little, Brown & Co., 1966), pp. 100-04. 142 and long underwear, there were men of good heart, and sinners could paradoxically be- come saint-like, and whores undone by a sudden acquaintance with virtue and charity, could blush beneath their painted cheeks.4 In story after story, Harte repeated the basic elements of mining camp settings and characters to bring himself and the Western legend to national and international fame. In an era in which American native drama was still struggling against English and French imports, Harte's articulation of the Western legend was to prove a significant stimulus for popular playwrights. Even a brief glance at a list of play-titles from the late- nineteenth and early-twentieth century will reveal the profound influence of Harte. Not only the settings and characters, but the very titles of Harte's short stories are echoed in such titles as: Triss, pp Beyond the Rockies (1892); Dot, the Miner's Daughter (1888); The Mountain Waif (1892); My Partner (1880); and scores of others.46 The spirit of Bret Harte and his Western legend was pervasive in these plays. Elements of the legend may be heard in the following Prelude to a publication of an 45O'Connor, p. 101. 46Justin Adams, Triss, pp Beyond the Rockies (Boston: W. H. Baker & Co., c. 1893); Lizzie May Elwyn, Dot, the Miner's Daughter (Clyde, Ohio: Ames Pub. Co., 0. 1888); Charles Townsend, The Mountain Waif (Boston: W. H. Baker & Co., c. 1892). Bartley Campbell, My Partner (n.p., c. 1880). All of these plays are repro— duced in EADNC. My Partner may also be consulted in America's Lost Plays, Vol. XIX, pp. 47-98. 143 innocent outlaw formula drama entitled The 'Forty- Niners: The play, The 'Forty—Niners, is essentially American, and of a time and place wholly by themselves. Its plot could never have been studied in advance. It both made and un- ravelled itself as things transpired. Its characters could not have been originated. They sprang from an environment wholly beyond boundaries. All was free and easy among the 'Forty-Niners'. The situation encouraged by the desparate, made possible all the tragic found in the play. It, none the less, gave opportunities for the exercise of the nobler qualities in man. Hence, the strong contrasts between the good and bad elements of such society as existed on those far away fron- tiers. The play is faithful to the civili- zation that made its characters and incidents possible, and, in this respect, it is almost veritable history.47 Characters in this and other plays expressed similar (if less structured) sentiments towards their environs and the general Gold Rush experience. The conventions of setting and character that evolved from the creative invention of Harte were parti- cularly appropriate for melodramas that told the story of innocent outlaws. Both in historical fact and in fiction, the Western foothills and mining-camps represented the last stopping-off place for the perpetual American im- pulse towards Westward expansion and migration. The pic- turesque hills, therefore, constituted a culturally reso— nant backdrop for outlaws who fled from their past lives 47Thomas W. Hanshew, Prelude to The Forty—Niners: p Drama pp the Gold Mines (Philadelphia: Dick and Fitz- gerald, 1906), in EADNC. 144 to start life anew under false identities--outlaws like Nancy Williams in The Danites, Dick Fairlee in Nevada, or Herb Stanton in Crawford's Claim. In addition to providing an appropriate setting for outlaw formula dramas, the Harte short-stories set forth the original models for many Character types that were to appear with frequency in those dramas. With minor adjustments, several of Harte's stock characters could be deployed in either the traditional roles of melodrama (e.g., the comic man, or the 'good' man), or the conven- tional roles generated by the specific demands of the in- nocent outlaw formula.48 An excellent example of this process at work may be noted in the frequent use of Chinese characters as the comic men in such outlaw dramas as The Danites; Nevada, pp the Lost Mine; and Crawford's Claim. Such clever, opportunistic characters were pro- bably descendants from Harte's Chinese characters See Yup and Wan Lee, who appear in short—stories bearing their 49 names in the title. Another stock Harte Character who 48For descriptive analyses of the traditional stock characters of melodrama, see among others Rahill, pp. 16-45; Michael R. Booth, English Melodrama (London: Herbert Jenkins, 1965), pp. 13—39; and Owen Davis, ppp Like pp_2p pp All Again (New York: MacMillan, 1931), pp. 95-115. 49The short-stories "See Yup," "Wan Lee, the Pagan," and other works by Harte mentioned in this dis- cussion may be found in Bret Harte, The Writings pp Bret Harte 8 vols. (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1896-1914). 145 proved useful as a comic, but ultimately effective authority figure in outlaw dramas was the "Judge" character. But perhaps the most frequently employed Harte character was the orphaned 'child' of the camp figure mentioned earlier as the lover/defender figure in such plays as Little Goldie, pp the Child pp the Camp; The Mountain Waif; and Doty the Miner's Daughter. These characters were probably fashioned after such Harte 'waifs' as M'liss in "M'liss," and Liberty Jones in "Liberty Jones's Dis- "5 covery. The 'B'gosh' Play -—- Like Harte's Gold Rush formula, the 'b'gosh' dramas that came to national popularity in the early 1890's offered an appropriate and useful set of con- ventional settings and characters to playwrights employing the innocent outlaw formula. Rahill observes that rural plays such as Thompson's The Old Homestead, Neilson Burgess' The Country Fair (1889), and Joseph Arthur's Blue Jeans (1888, produced in New York, 1890) helped to mark "the turn of the tide in the fortunes of native drama, at least on the New York Stage."51 These plays and the hundreds of rural comedies and melodramas they inspired evoked a nostalgic picture of the quaint haunts and - 50In this discussion of Harte characters, I have relied heavily upon O'Connor, pp. 307-312. Here, O'Connor provides an extremely useful listing of Harte's stock characters as they are found in the various short- stories. 51Rahill, p. 261. 146 folksy characters of small-town Americana. Whereas the romantic image of the Gold Rush camps related to the Westward migration, the nostalgic image of the small villages and rural towns related to the tremendous internal migration from rural areas to urban centers that took place in the closing decades of the last century. Historian Arthur M. Schlesinger states that "the drama of rural life made a special appeal to nos- talgic city dwellers desirous of renewing their childhood memories.”52 In The Small Town ip American Drama, Ima H. Herron expresses a similar idea concerning the cultural significance of the rural plays: As small towns and their surrounding farms . . . began losing their economic and cultural significance, Americans trans- planted to the cities needed some reassur- ance 'that life was still wholesome among the plain people of the back country.‘ Their nostalgic attitudes . . . led to a kind of mythmaking, which celebrated country virtues, smiling villages, and neighborly towns. . . . Certainly, the idea that the small place--the old hometown--is the seed ground for everything that is basically democratic determined the demand during the nineties, and later, for 'grass roots' plays.53 While the specific cultural significance of the innocent outlaw formula will be discussed in the next chapter, the remarks of Schlesinger and Herron help to explain some of 52 MacMillan Co., 1933), p. 294. ‘—— 53Herron, The Small Town ip_American Drama (Dallas: Southern Methodist University Press, 1969), p. 178. 147 the appeal that the conventional settings of the 'b'gosh' plays had for audiences and for playwrights employing the outlaw formula. The 'b'gosh' dramas featured a richly colorful set of character types that might be deployed in outlaw melodramas. The central character to emerge from the 'b'gosh' tradition was the wise, but gullible "Uncle" character that was patterned after Thompson's Uncle Joshua Whitcomb. Rahill observes: There was some such gnarled rustic in all the 'b'gosh' dramas . . . Uncle Nat, in Shore Acres (1882); Uncle Sam'l, in Hearts pp Oak (1879); Squire Tucker and Colonel Moberley, of Alabama; Colonel Doolittle, in 1p Old Kentucky; and Mrs. Barnaby Bibbs, a feminine version of the type, in Neil Burgess' The Country Fair (1889).54 In addition to these rather prominent dramas, Harlowe Hoyt notes that in the heyday of the repertoire companies, the small town theatres were inundated with a phenomenon cal- led "Uncle Si shows." He describes these plays as "The Old Homestead . . . rewritten to include the saw mill scene from Blue Jeans."55 Due to the popularity of these 'Uncle' shows, lists of popular drama titles from the era tend to be dotted with such titles as: Uncle Josh Spruceby; Uncle §i Slocum; and Uncle Hiram.56 54Rahill, p. 259. 55Hoyt, pp. 92-93. 56See, for example, lists provided by Gallegly, Footlights pp Border, pp. 200-33. 148 The 'Uncle' character provided innocent outlaw dramas with an excellent conventional mold for authority figures. The outlines of the character may be seen in Squire Bartlett, in Way Down East; David Harum, in David Harum; Ezekiel Fortune, in Hick'ry Farm; and Josiah Bumble, in Clouds and Sunshine. Besides the Uncle character, the 'b'gosh' dramas also brought the traditional country-boy comic character to new heights of popularity, and set the stage for the emergence of the phenomenally popular "Toby" character. The 'rube' character was a descendant of a long tradition that included: the rustic 'wise-fool' of Greek and Roman farces; the 'Narr' character of German folk comedy; William, in Shakespeare's pe X p pppe pp; Jonathan, in Tyler's The Contrast; and Sample Switchell, in Pratt's Ten Nights i p Barroom.57 The 1890's saw the continua- tion of this tradition with such 'silly kid' characters as Peleg, in David Harum; Tom, in The Countpy Kid; and Hi Holler, in Way Down East. Finally, sometime around 1910, repertoire actor Fred Wilson added two new ingredients to the conventional characterization--his own naturally unruly red hair; and the permanent use of the name 'Toby' for all rube roles no matter what name the play— wright had assigned the character.58 As word spread 57Slout, Theatre, pp. 83-91; and, Mickel, pp. 146- 47. 58For a fuller discussion of the origins of the Toby character and the controversy surrounding those ori- gins, see intra Appendix A. 149 of Wilson's tremendous popularity and success with the role, hundreds of repertoire troupes began featuring Toby in plays that were either written or rewritten to include this new phenomenon. For the remaining thirty years of repertoire's existence, Toby would amuse millions of rural Americans. Mickel has called Toby repertoire's ”one original contribution to the American theatre."59 Summary The innocent outlaw formula has been described as a conventional system for organizing certain conventional material elements of plot, situation, character, and setting. In terms of archetype, the system relates to the universal archetype of fall-expulsion-redemption. In terms of the history of the genre of melodrama, the Chapter has suggested that the origins of the formula's dramatic conventions may be traced to the early melo- dramas of the French melodramatist, Pixerécourt. Fol- lowing patterns that Pixerécourt may have established with two types of variant plots (the wrongly accused hero plot and the cruelly deceived heroine plot), melodramatists of the period between 1880 and 1914 constructed formula dramas that were of basic appeal to American popular audiences. The major conventions employed by these writers have been described according to each of the three phases of the 59Mickel, p. 151. 150 formula--fall, expulsion, and redemption. In describing these major conventions, some reference has been made to the possible sources of the appeal that these plays held for audiences. The expulsion phase, for example, may be described as a type of game between representatives of good and evil forces. In the discussion of conventional characters and settings, it was observed that some of the appeal of the pattern of exile or expulsion to a new life may be relevant to the internal migration from rural to urban areas. It will remain for the next chapter to pur- sue these and other thoughts on the cultural significance and meaning of the formula. CHAPTER IV THE CULTURAL SIGNIFICANCE OF THE INNOCENT OUTLAW FORMULA It may be evident from the last chapter's descrip— tion of conventional patterns, that the innocent outlaw formula possessed several elements of genuine melodramatic appeal. No doubt, a large measure of the formula's popu- lar success may be traced to its effectiveness as a type of melodrama. It was marked by strong dramatic unity due largely to the fall-expulsion-redemption structure. High levels of emotional power were generated by pathos and fear for the outlaw, love interest in his/her relationship with the lover/defender, and antipathy towards the villain. In addition, the formula presented ample opportunities for effective drama with its discovery scenes, its rising cycle of crises between the protagonist and the obstacle, and its obligatory confrontation scene between the outlaw and the obstacle. However, while these dramatic and theatrical strengths may have played a major role in the formula's suc— cess, they do not account for that success entirely. Part of a formula's appeal for a given culture lies in its 151 152 ability to fulfill certain cultural and psychological functions, such as reaffirming traditional beliefs, allaying social tensions, and giving expression to latent anxieties. After a brief overview of the cultural background to the formula, the formula will be shown performing such functions in each of its dimensions--as social ritual, as game, and as collective dream. The Cultural Background pp the Formula During the years between 1880 and 1914, the com- bined forces of mechanization, industrialism, and urbani- zation transformed the material and spiritual sides of life in American society. Increased mechanization in agriculture spelled fewer jobs in the country, while in- creasing mechanization and industrialism in manufacturing created thousands of new jobs in the cities. This situa- tion resulted in a dramatic shift of populations from rural to urban areas, and a sharp decline in the agrarian way of life that had helped to mold American society in the first hundred years of its nationhood.1 1Throughout this chapter, in discussing the history of the post—Civil War era, I have depended heavily upon a number of excellent historical works. Chief among these have been: Ray Gingen,2pe_pge pp Excess: The United States from 1877 pp 1914 (New York: MacMillan, 1965); Samuel P. Hays, The Response pp Industrialism: 1885-1914 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1957); Ari Hoogenboom and Olive Hoogenboom, ed., The Gilded Age (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice Hall, 1967); Jay Martin, Harvests pp Change: American Literature, 1865-1914 (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice Hall, 1967); John Tipple, "The Robber Baron in the 153 Many of the material changes in American culture may be traced to changes in the techniques of production and distribution. Traditionally, the agrarian culture had relied upon the muscular power of individual farmers and craftsmen working in accordance with the laws and rhythms of nature (e.g., sunrise to sunset, or the life-span of one man), creating a total product, and then selling that product in a free market system. In the urban-industrial society, machine power was substituted for muscular power.2 The tradition of individual craftsmen was largely supplanted by the division of labor-—groups of workers dealing with one standardized part or process within the production of the finished product, rather than creating a total product. The new system of mass-production was oriented neither to the laws of nature, nor to the life span of an individual worker, but rather to the laws and rhythms of the machine, the collective labor of generations of workers, and the 1 Gilded Age: Entrepreneur or Iconoclast?", in The Gilded A e: A Reappraisal ed. by H. Wayne Morgan (Syracuse, N. .: syracuse University Press, 1963); Robert H. Wiebe, The Search for Order: 1877-1920 (New York: Hill and Wang, 1967); and, Richard Weiss, The American Myth pp Success: From Horatio Alger pp Norman Vincent Peale (New York: Basic Books, 1969). 2Josiah Strong, The Twentieth Century City, quoted in American Issues, Vol. I: The Social Record, eds. Willard Throp, Merle Curti, Carlos Baker (Chicago: Lippicott, 1944), pp. 745-46. 154 practically limitless life-span of the owner of the machine--the industrial corporation.3 While the material changes wrought by the rise of industrialism may be measured in such things as declining rural census figures, or increased production statistics, the profound spiritual changes that took place in the nation cannot be expressed or measured in numbers. Individuals felt threatened by the rise of vast impersonal forces as- sociated with industrialism, urbanization, and mechaniza- tion. New values and beliefs seemed to shake the founda— tions of traditional morality. Reverend Josiah Strong, remembering his own sense of confusion, probably describes the feelings of many of his era, when he observes: My -. .views felt the shOck of great Changes, theological and social, which have taken place during the past generation. Broken loose from their ancient moorings, men seemed to me to be drifting. New views fostered by science were believed to be hos— tile to religion, paralyzing to faith, and demoralizing to conduct. Impatience of re- straint rather than love of truth seemed to inspire the attacks on many beliefs which the fathers held sacred. When would these changes cease? How much of the old structure of society and belief would they leave standipg? Were there any great certainties left? 3See especially Tipple, "The Robber Baron in the Guilded Age," pp. 19-32. Cf. also, William Jennings Bryan's fascinating speech on the corporation as "a man-made man”, in Hoogenboom, The Gilded Age, pp. 41-45. Bryan's thoughts are particularly revealing indicators of rural, Populist thought, since he was the leading spokesman for Populism in the era. 4Strong, The Times and Young Men (New York: Baker & Taylor, 1961), pp. 13-14. 155 A more generalized, historial View of the era between the Civil War and World War I is given by modern literary his- torian Jay Martin: Institutions, systems of belief, ideological and social assumptions, ways of feeling at home in the world--in short, the whole scene of human endeavour and thought--that had existed. .. since the Middle Ages,now passed away during this fifty year period. Confus- ion, resulting from feelings of personal alienation amid the loss of sogial stability, became more and more apparent. Various sectors of society experienced the feelings described by Strong and Martin as reactions to differing facets of the great changes that were taking place in the country as a whole. The sector of society, for example, that McLean describes as "the New Folk"--the masses of European immigrants and transplanted rural Americans living in the urban manufacturing centers--found themselves at the very heart of the problems created by rapid urbaniza- tion. They experienced the bewildering process of being uprooted from their familiar rural surroundings and their traditional folkways and customs. The New Folk found in vaudeville a "ritual of Americanization" with which they were able to "dull the bitter edge of transition into the mechanized and overpopulated environment of the twentieth century."6 The concerns and fears of rural Americans in the face of the rising industrialization of society were no less 5Martin, Harvests pp Change, p. 1. 6McLean, American Vaudeville pe Ritual, p. 213. 156 substantial than those of City dwellers. Historian Samuel P. Hays describes some of the effects of industrialism up- on rural areas: The new urban centers profoundly altered small-town and rural patterns of culture. Country people envied the increasing popu- lation, wealth, and power of the cities, but they also feared the strange new inter- ests and activities which urban leisure made possible, as well as the institutions which arose among immigrants. Such innovations reached out to assert themselves in the wider life of the state and the nation and to transform the dominant rural-rooted tradi- tions of the entire country. Farming com- munities felt that their mode of living, what they considered to be the traditional American way of life, was threatened.7 But, within the contexts of these broad historical and cul- tural changes, is it possible to discern some of the speci- fic ways in which industrialism affected life in rural, small towns? In his The Search For Order, Robert Wiebe argues that urban—industrial influences brought about a crisis of autonomy within small communities by substantially alter- ing financial, political, and social interaction. He notes, for example, that dealings between the local storekeeper and his customers were changed by new methods of distribu- tion and merchandising that had been initiated by corpora- tions. No longer would the customer expect to be able to bargain for lower prices, or ask for personal credit. Storekeepers could ill afford to offer such leeway to 7Hays, Response pp Industrialism, p. 110. 157 customers, when they themselves received little or no leeway from the new wholesale houses that supplied stan- dardized goods at standardized prices. Similarly, the local banker was forced by his linkage with urban financial institutions to employ less personal latitude in loaning, and more disciplinary sternness in exacting payments.8 These and other similar developments helped to create ”a widespread loss of confidence in the powers of the communityfl Wiebe describes this loss of confidence as follows: In a manner that eludes precise explanation, countless citizens in towns and cities a- cross the land sensed that something funda- mental was happening to their lives, some- thing they had not willed and did not want, and they responded by striking out at whatever enemies their view of the world allowed them to see. They fought, in other words, to pre- serve the society that had given their lives meaning. But it had already slipped beyond their grasp. In the remainder of this chapter, it will be argued that the innocent outlaw formula expressed a vision of the society that small town Americans were fighting in vain to preserve. This society will be called 'the personalized society.’10 8Wiebe, Search For Order, pp. 48—50. 9Wiebe, p. 44. 10The term 'personalized society' was suggested largely by Rowland Berthoff, pp Unsettled People: Social Order and Disorder ip American Histopy (New York: Harper & Row, 1971), pp. 359-454. As employed in the present study, the term is intended to encompass the partly nostalgized, partly idealized vision of an autonomous, egalitarian, democratic community that arose in small communities as a reaction to the crisis of community autonomy during the era of rapid industrialism. See Wiebe, Chapter III, "Crisis in the Communities,” pp. 44-75. 158 The Formula ee Social Ritual As noted in Chapter II, popular dramas may perform functions similar to those of ritual in a society. They may do so in two major ways: by articulating and reaf- firming basic cultural value/belief systems that are es- sential for the smooth running and survival of the society; and by providing individual members of society an opportunity to express their individual goals, wishes and impulses come into conflict with the requirements of social living. Fur- thermore, it was noted in Chapter II that the conflicts pre- sented in popular dramas are likely to be present in the actual life of the community.11 The role of melodrama, as a genre, in reaffirming basic values and traditional morality has been discussed by many critics, including Cawelti, Rahill, Brooks, Michael Booth, and Michael P. Steele.12 Brooks presents perhaps the most effective analysis of the process by which melo- drama actually performs its reaffirming function within a society. 11For discussion of these matters, see Goodlad, Sociology pp Popular Drama, especially pp. 172-79, 188-89. 12Cawelti, Adventure, pp. 44-47; Rahill, World 9; Melodrama, pp. xv-xviii; Brooks, Melodramatic Imagination, pp. 52-55,82—83, 202-206; Booth, English Melodrama, pp. 13- 30; and William Paul Steele, "The Character of Melodrama: An Examination Through Dion Boucicault's 'The Poor of New York'," University pp Maine Bulletin, Second Series, 87 (1968). 159 Evil must first be articulated and recog- nized, then the sign of virtue will begin to overcome its repression. By the end of the play, desire has achieved its satisfaction. No shadow dwells, and the universe bathes in the full, bright lighting of moral manichae- ism. Hence, the psychic bravado of virtue, its expressive breakthrough, serves to reas- sure us, again and again, that it possesses an ethical identity and significance. This reassurance must be a central function of melodrama in the post-sacred universe: it relocates and articulates the most basic moral sentiments and celebrates the sign of the right.1 But, while there has been considerable discussion of the genre's ability to reaffirm traditional beliefs, less attention has been paid to its ability to provide an arena in which negative emotions towards social living may be expressed and allayed. A useful tool for exploring this function is suggested by Grimsted, who compares the exper— ience of melodrama to a ritual-like testing of religious faith. In this process, an audience's beliefs are exposed to various sources of temptation designed to tempt them towards abandoning their avowed faith and indulge in "sins of despair." Within the contexts of the metaphor, two types of 'faith' were tested: a providential faith in virtue's reward; and a social or cultural equivalent of that providential faith.14 The providential faith flowed from the generic form of melodrama. Viewed in terms of Cawelti's formula 13Brooks, Melodramatic Imagination, p. 43. 14Grimsted, Melodrama Unveiled, pp. 223-25. 160 methodology, this faith embodied the moral fantasy of melo- drama, the showing forth of the rightness of the universal world order.15 In order to tempt the audience to waver in their faith in virtue's triumph and the rightness of the world order, playwrights heaped trials and tribulations upon the virtuous protagonist and allowed vice to have the upper hand until the penultimate moment. This process, suggests Grimsted, reminded the audiences that great faith and resignation were necessary in life before the hand of providence moved to assist the virtuous. The faith that was the social equivalent of the faith in providence flowed not from melodramatic pppp, but from the characteristic content of a specific culture's drama. Thus, the content of such early melodramas as The American Captive and The Battle pp New Orleans, according to Grimsted, reflects the early-nineteenth-century's char- acteristically strong "faith in historical progress, and particularly in the superiority of the American experience. Like the providential faith, this faith was also subjected to a series of events and situations that tempted audiences to abandon faith in progress. These fictional events re- flected the existence of a certain non-fictional, latent reservations concerning progress in America. Grimsted notes, for instance, that, "especially after 1840, many 15See Cawelti, Adventure, pp. 37-50. 16Grimsted, Melodrama Unveiled, p. 224. 161 plays . . . showed apprehension about modern social ills, such as the evils of the city, the spread of crime, the hard lot of the poor, or the hard-heartedness of the rich."17 In exposing audiences to these situations, then, melodrama allowed them to express tensions and negative emotions towards American society. To summarize, Grimsted finds that early melodrama aroused and subsequently allayed social anxieties concerning the very value/belief systems that it articulated and reaffirmed-—faith in traditional morality; and faith in historical progress. What was the social equivalent to the generic faith in virtue's reward in the innocent outlaw formula? What sins of despair, or latent reservations, lurked behind that social or cultural faith? These are the questions that will be dealt with in the remainder of this discussion of the formula as social ritual. In its most elemental form, the innocent outlaw formula is a drama depicting the traumatic disruption of normal relations between an individual and society at large. Through the circumstances of the disruption, the basically virtuous individual becomes an escapee from society. Thematically, escapee figures give expression to ambivalent feelings concerning society and civilization, 17Grimsted, Melodrama Unveiled, p. 224. 162 in general.18 On the one hand, the outlaw-as-escapee re- flects fears and concerns about the limitations and fal- libilities of society, especially as regards matters of human justice--law enforcement agencies and the courts. On the other hand, the outlaw also reflects the limits of individualism and expresses some of the positive benefits which a well-ordered society can provide a human being, in- asmuch as the pathos for his separation from family, friends, and normal community life forms a recurrent emotional theme in the drama. It is through the opposition and tension between these ambivalent types of feelings that the parti- cular dramatic texture of the formula emerges. But, more importantly for this discussion, it is through that op- position of these feelings that the formula-drama fulfilled its function as social ritual, for the positive feelings concerning society translate themselves into a social faith, while the negative, anti-social feelings and concerns translate into temptations to despair. Just as the final tableau presents the clearest vision of a melodrama's faith in virtue's reward, so it likewise presents the clearest vision of the formula's equivalent cultural faith--a faith in the personalized society. The society shown at the final tableau is 18I am endebted here to Cawelti, Six-Gun Mystique, pp. 50-51. This is an excellent discussion of a type of escapee figure found in Western formula stories. 163 'personalized' in several senses. First, and most im- portantly, it is personalized inasmuch as the individual person's social identity and moral worth have been recog— nized and restored. This aspect of the personalization is highlighted by the fact that, in most cases, the individual%3 loss of his social identity and his fall from moral respect- ability took place in the impersonalized world of the city. Hence, the outlaw finds redemption in a sector of society that is removed from the life of the city, both in terms of distance and in terms of social structure. Second, the society is personalized in the sense that individuals are shown to be ultimately free to carve out their personal paths of action. The protagonist has chosen a difficult strategy to win his redemption. In order to prove his innocence, he has elected to trust in himself and fate, rather than trust in the offices and agencies of society. In the final recognition and affirmation of the virtue of the outlaw, the individuality of the means he has employed to win that redemption is affirmed, as well. Third, the society is shown to be one in which individuals are ulti- mately responsible for their own actions. This, of course, is demonstrated mainly through the punishment of the villain and his forces. Finally, the term personalized helps to connote the fact that the protagonist is redeemed and united 164 with a society that he has chosen for his own.19 Unlike the orphan found formula, for example, in which the pro- tagonist regains his/her rightful position in a family to which he was born, the outlaw formula usually portrays a protagonist's ultimate acceptance by a community he had sought out as a refuge after his fall. This aspect of the formula echoed the drift of vast numbers of rural dwellers to larger towns and cities, and reflected what McLean has called ”a new-found virtue in wandering rather than re- maining in the pastoral community."20 The personalized society that is presented in such ideally blissful colors at the final tableau is foreshadowed by various devices throughout the unfolding of the drama. The most frequent device for prefiguring the ultimate emer- gence of the society was to orient the drama to such idyllic, democratic settings as rural villages or mining camps. Typically, the outlaw, whose normal relations with society have been severely disrupted in the city, or 'back East', comes to the village or the mining town to find anonymity 19See Berthoff, Unsettled People, esp. pp. 396—454, for an insightful discussion of the growth of 'voluntarism' which was beginning to alter traditional patterns of family, church, and community life in the late-nineteenth and early- twentieth centuries. ZOMCLean, p. 175. McLean, pp. 165-92, describes and analyzes several vaudeville playlets, including one simplistic treatment of the innocent outlaw formula entitled Faro Nell (c. 1912) by Willis Steele. 165 and a normal life among people who live closer to nature, to one another, and to God, than city dwellers. Frye com- ments that "the idyllic .. .preserves the theme of escape from society to the extent of idealizing a simplified life in the country or on the frontier.”21 The idyllic settings are reinforced and the process of prefiguring continued by the sentiments expressed by the quaint inhabitants concerning life in their environs. The miners in The Forty-Niners, for instance, are heard singing: To the west, to the west! To the land of the free, To the new El Dorado that crowns liberty! Where a man is a man, if he's willing to toil, And the humblest may gather the fruits of the ' v 8011- (I.i.i.) While the song permitted one type of poetic description of natural settings, a more common device was to place lofty words in the mouth of a bombastic, overly sentimental character, such as Major Britt, in My Partner. Britt gives the following description of his mining camp community: . . we, the people of this glorious common- wealth, blown from the four winds of the uni- verse, are one family--the children of mis- fortune crowded out of the avenues of trade in the East, and founding a new destiny in the West, leaving behind the luxuries of i iliz t n. c V a 1° (I i 57) Through such sentiments, folksy characters, idyllic set- tings, and the final tableaux, then, a positive image of 21Frye, Anatomy pp Criticism, p. 43. 166 the personalized society hovered over the formula-drama's action. But such a positive approach was not the only means to a perception of the personalized society. In a discussion comparing actual societies and their fictional counterparts, Duncan observes that in both types of societies, "social order defines itself through disorder as well as order."22 This principle helps to explain how the formula's vision of a personalized society is made clearer by its exposure to certain disorders as- sociated with various characteristic sins of despair. Through the depiction of negative situations and characters that tap the real-life tensions and anxieties of audience members, the positive dimensions of the personalized society envisaged by the formula are thrown into sharp relief. There were several types of social disorders found in the formula. The most fundamental disorder, the one that sets the keynote for the drama, is the miscarriage of human justice that leads to the protagonist's loss of his social identity and his social respectability. This disruption of the outlaw's life reflects two separate, but related, kinds of social tensions--the fear of loss of personal autonomy; and the mistrust of legal and judicial processes. As noted earlier in this chapter, the rise of industrialism brought with it a rise in corporations, standardization, unionization, and other institutions that posed basic 22Duncan, Communication and Social Order, p. 281. 167 threats to the traditional values of individual worth and self-reliance. John D. Rockefeller had proclaimed, "The day of combination is here to stay. Individualism is gone, never to return."23 Even defenders of life in rural towns admitted that times were changing with respect to individualism. Writing in 1914, Wilbert L. Anderson ob- served that, ”the older virtues--frugality, self-reliance, reverence-—may suffer in the new time. . . . The social man has taken the place of independent man."24 But for those that clung to traditional ideals of individualism, as many rural dwellers did, and for those that lamented its decline, the image of the innocent outlaw was an evocative one. His fall from social identity and respectability in the eyes of society symbolized the various threats that were being posed to the traditions of individual worth and respectability in modern society. Similarly, his success- ful struggle to redeem himself presented a gratifying em- blem of triumph for individuality. The second type of social tension or doubt re- flected by the miscarriage of justice in the outlaw's life was a growing mistrust and ambivalence concerning 23Rockefeller, quoted in Allan Nevins, Study pp Power, John Q. Rockefeller (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1953), I, p. 401. 24Anderson, The Country Town: A Study pp Rural Evolution (New York: Doubleday, Page & Co., 1914), p. 220. 168 legal and judicial processes. Corruption in high offices and judicial judgments that equated corporations with in— dividual human beings may be cited among the major causes for the spread of skeptical and cynical attitudes towards the agencies of human justice in American society during the late-nineteenth-century. Daryl E. Jones summarizes these attitudes as follows: the majority of Americans suspected a nefarious association between law and special privilege. In an age of increasing class polarization, of growing antagonism between labor and capital, it seemed that unscrupulous members of the upper class were exploiting the intricacies of the legal system as a means of furthering their own interests while simultaneously denying the fundamental democratic rights of the major- ity.25 No doubt, the innocent outlaw melodrama that best exempli- fied the kind of "nefarious association between law and special privilege" mentioned by Jones was The Great Diamond Robbery. In that drama, the aristocratic, foreign-born villains are shown to be in nearly complete control of the county medical examiner, the police force, the police commissioners, and the local U.S. Senator. In the final moments of the play as the villainness and her prestigious forces are being vanquished, Mary Lavelot asserts the vision of the personalized society by stating "the God of 25"Clenched Teeth and Curses: Revenge and the Dime Novel Outlaw Hero," Journal pp Popular Culture, VII, 3 (Winter, 1973), p. 653. 169 Justice reigns in New York City." Another social tension obscuring the vision of a personalized society resulted from the dogmatic moral and social codes that held sway in the on-stage society. Having been made an outcast to normal society by the cir- cumstances of his fall, the protagonist finds the terms of his/her outcast status heightened in the expulsion phase. This is because the prevailing moral and social codes that the outlaw encounters in his new life are so conservative and protective of the status quo that they appear to pro- hibit the entrance of outsiders or newcomers to the society. The audience, with its superior vantage point, is able to discern those points at which the on-stage community may quite unknowingly be erecting barriers between themselves and the protagonist. Since the audience's sympathies run strongly for the protagonist, their superior viewpoint prompts them to regard the codes of the society as being rather narrow-minded and oppressive. Hence, to the extent that they are prompted to moments of resentment towards the exclusivity of the on-stage community, the audience is being tempted to abandon their faith in the potential of that community to become a personalized society. While the actual tensions that this disorder re- flected in small town community life will be discussed in another section of this chapter, it may be noted here that the formula's concern for the relation between the individ- ual and the moral and social codes of society made the 170 dramas a natural arena in which social debate might take place. In Way Down East, for example, the issue of debate between Anna Moore and Lennox Sanderson was the unfair- ness of a double standard of morality that forces young women to endure the punishment for crimes that take place because "every young man has to sow his wild oats--that has become proverbial" (II.i.21). In David Harum, Mary Blake describes herself as one "who always believed in woman's inherent rights to independence" (1.1.16), and she demonstrates this both in her actions and her words of de- bate with various male characters. In The Mountain Waif, Bill Wilbur and Dolly Mason debate the question of vigil- ante law vs. civil law. Bill, who wins audience admira- tion with several acts of bravery and good judgment, pre- sents some interesting arguments on behalf of vigilante law: Bill: What is the law? Ain't it something established by common use and common sense? Don't all law and order come from the people; an' ain't we the people? When you catch a murderer in the East, you make a hero out of him. The newspapers print his picture and a lotta rot, tellin' what he eats and drinks and wears. . . . After a while, a fool jury disagrees, and he gets a new trial-—which means that in time he goes scott free! Out here we don't split hairs. If a man is killed in a row, it's his own affair an' we don't interfere with it. But if a man is a thievin', cowardly murdering Scoundrel, an' we can prove it, by the livin' jingo, he's goin' to swing! (IV.i.35-6) Interestingly, all the men in the cast are shown to be sympathetic to vigilante law as defended by Bill, while 171 each of the women in the cast lines up behind Dolly in her vigorous opposition to it. The final tableau presents a victory for the women's point of View, and includes a direct appeal to the audience to practice a similar kind of civilized respect for the due process of law in their lives. This appeal made the final moments of The Mountain Mpip a notably clear and memorable vision of the personal- ized society. To summarize, then, in its dimension as ritual, the innocent outlaw formula-drama tested and reaffirmed two kinds of faith. First, as a melodrama, it confirmed traditional morality by reaffirming melodrama's generic moral fantasy of virtue's recognition/reward and vice's downfall. This faith was tested by subjecting the virtu- ous protagonist to trials and tribulations until the high point in the drama, thus tempting the audience to abandon their confidence in the moral fantasy. In the climax and final tableau in which the virtue of the outlaw is recog— nized, the audience feels that its faith in traditional morality has been strengthened by exposure to strong temp— tations to despair. The second type of faith was the social equivalent of the generic moral fantasy. As a specific melodramatic formula, the outlaw drama reaffirmed the rural audience's belief in the personalized society—-a type of society in which the ideals of agrarianism and individual worth still prevailed. This faith was tested by subjecting the 172 relationship between the protagonist and his society to various social disorders and disruptions. These dis- orders, which reflect actual tensions that were found in late-nineteenth and early-twentieth-century American society, tempted rural audiences to abandon their confi- dence in the social fantasy of the personalized society and the ideals of agrarianism and individual worth it embodied. In the final tableau in which the individual stands redeemed and the society has proven its potential as a personalized society, the rural audience feels that its faith in the ideals of a personalized society have been strengthened by exposure to strong temptations to despair. The Formula ee Game In the description of the formula's conventions provided in Chapter III, several important elements of the formula as game were discussed. The protagonist and the forces of the obstacle were viewed as participants in a 'guilt game' in which the object was to place the blame for the alleged offense upon the shoulders of the other party. The game was seen as governed by certain 'rules' that were ultimately derived from the principles of melo- dramatic form. And, finally, the members of the on-stage community, especially the authority figures, were regarded as game-judges, or referees, inasmuch as their perception and recognition of worth determined the final outcome of the game-struggle. Besides these elements, two other aspects of the game dimension may be briefly discussed—- 173 the unfolding of a familiar pattern of experience; and the ego-enhancement and escape generated by the moral fantasy. Like games, the formula-drama of the innocent outlaw unfolds a familiar, predictable pattern of emotion- a1 experience—-excitement, suspense, and release--that in- cludes certain characteristic types of situations and con- frontations. In the typical treatment of the formula, ex- citement is generated by the first complication which usually entails the emergence of the repressed element from the outlaw's past into his present new life. Like the 'voice of blood' recognition of other formulas, the out- law's confrontation with the newly-arrived element from his past is a pleasurably familiar type of discovery scene. Unlike real games, the suspense element in formula-dramas stems less from the question of ppp will win in the strug- gle, than from the question of ppep and ppp the protagonist will eventually win. The familiar situational pattern in- volves a progression from a stalemate between the foes, through a series of victories for vice, to a sudden rever- sal that brings victory to the underdog forces of the pro- tagonist. The sudden reversal and victory bring the familiar, expected sense of release to the pattern. The expulsion of the villain and the center-stage reunion of the protagonist with the lover/defender were the most familiar elements of the release section. As in games, an important pleasure associated with the release is the ego- enhancement that comes with seeing a favorite competitor win. 174 In Chapter II, the element of moral fantasy was described as the key element within the world of the for- mula that sets that world apart from the actual world of reality. Romantic formulas, for example, reflect the moral fantasy that love conquers all obstacles. Through empathetic responses to characters living in the idealized worlds of the various moral fantasies, popular audiences receive ego-enhancement and a sense of escape from the limitations and vicissitudes of real life. As melodrama, the innocent outlaw drama revealed the generic moral fantasy that Cawelti described as "showing forth the essential 'rightness' of the world order."26 In the game dimension, this moral fantasy takes on a different function and significance than it was shown to have in the ritual dimension. Instead of reaf- firming a community's traditional moral codes and their social equivalents, the moral fantasy functions in the game dimensions by gratifying the individual's ego by allowing him to participate vicariously in a morally simplistic uni- verse wherein virtuous behavior inevitably leads to hap- piness, and anti-social, immoral behavior inevitably brings punishment. Such a simplistic moral universe was probably very appealing to an age witnessing such tremendous cor- ruption at all levels of national life that "young men 26Cawelti, Adventure, p. 45. 175 came to regard the linkage of virtue and success as absurd."27 As a specific melodramatic formula, the outlaw formula revealed in its game dimension the social faith in the personalized society. It gratified the individualws ego by portraying a society in which the ideal of in- dividual worth and respectability still prevailed. In this community, an individual's social problems and ten- sions are always solved; the individual is invariably shown to be responsible for his actions; and the individual's worth (or lack of it) is invariably recognized. Such an ideal society was probably of appeal to the rural audiences of repertoire for two basic reasons. First, the personal- ized society's recognition of the individual helped tem- porarily allay concerns for the loss of personal autonomy in a society that was turning towards collective action and industrial organization. Second, the redemption of the outlaw after his fall and expulsion may have symbolized a restoration of rural dwellers and farming people to their previous state of respect and prestige in America's agrarian past. Hays states that beginning in the late- nineteenth-century, ”Farmers were no longer looked upon as . .28 respected yeomen. They were seen as 'hicks' and 'hayseeds. 27Weiss, American Myth 9: Success, p. 112. In his study, Weiss demonstrates how elements of popular culture such as Horatio Alger's novels, 'how-to-succeed' manuals, and Christian novels reflected changing attitudes towards virtue, individualism, traditional morality, and success. 28 Hays,p. 37. 176 In its game dimension, the innocent outlaw provided a happy resolution to this abrupt change in social status by picturing an individual who successfully struggles to re- gain his former respectability. The Formula pe Dream In Chapter II, various points of analogy and simi- larity between popular dramas and dreams were discussed. With particular reference to the thoughts of H. D. Duncan, it was noted that popular dramas can provide society with a type of communal self-address that is directly analog- ous in function to the type of self-address represented by dreams in an individual person.29 In staged characters, for example, a community may experience a process not un- like projection in dreamers, inasmuch as the characters embody some trait that the community may find either very attractive or very repulsive. Through projected characters and other elements, then, popular dramas provide a com- munity a medium in which its various diverse sectors may communicate with one another. While Duncan describes the general relation be- tween drama and dreams, other critics point to strong simi- larities and analogies between the structure of melodrama and the experience of dreams. Eric Bentley, for example, 29See Duncan, pp. 282-87. 177 calls melodrama "the Naturalism of the dream life."3O Similarly, Peter Brooks speaks of the melodramatic form as "a drama of pure psychic signs.”31 One of the advan- tages to be gained from the isolation and analysis of specific melodramatic formulas such as that of the innocent outlaw is that such studies may supply additional data to critics and scholars exploring the theoretical relation between melodrama and dream psychology. In this section of the chapter, two areas of the formula that bear simi- larities to dream psychology will be explored: the divi- sion of characters into id, super-ego, and ego functions; and the new life/new identity motif as a form of wish- fulfillment. Several points of analogy exist between the struc- ture of the innocent outlaw formula and Freud's personal— ity structure of the id, the ego, and the super-ego. The Characters comprising the on-stage society of the typical innocent outlaw drama may be divided according to their resemblance to the three personality systems. The most obvious group of characters to start with are the authority figures, who personify or represent the forces of the super-ego in the formula as dream. ”The super-ego," states Calvin S. Hall, ”is the moral or judicial branch of 3OBentley, Life pp the Drama, p. 205. 31Brooks, Melodramatic Imagination, p. 35. 178 . H32 . . . . personality. This part of the personality is the in- ternalization of parental authority and strives for the ideal, rather than reality or pleasure. In the dramas, authority figures perform 'super-ego' functions by arti- culating the moral standards of the on-stage community and by warning the lover-defenders (who represent the 'ego') of the dangers that involvement with strangers can create. Squire Bartlett, in Way Down East, is acting as a strict guardian of a stern Biblical morality when he banishes Anna from his household into the raging blizzard. Tom Carew, in Nevada or, the Lost Mine, explains "miner's law” to strangers, and warns young Moselle against Dick Fairlee. Dr. Gaylord, in Fairfax, is disturbed that Fairfax is falling in love with a woman whose background he has not thoroughly explored. He warns; "A woman whose purity you vouch for, ought to have a clear record—-a record that would go back further than two years” (II.i. 167). Finally, Josiah Bumble and Samantha Beese, in Clouds and Sunshine, advise young Reverend Joe Tucker that the elders of the church community are indignant because he has opened his doors to an unmarried woman of mysterious background. Although these and other authority figures were characteristically portrayed as rather loveable, and venerable older characters, the stern, ideal-oriented terms of their moralizing Often placed barriers between the 32Hall, A Primer of Freudian Psychology (New York: Mentor Books, 1954), p. BIT 179 outlaws and their desired society. Hence, the characters and the authority they represented aroused mixed emotions of affection and antipathy in audiences. Such 'super-ego' characters as these were probably projections of real-life individuals who exercised similar functions and aroused similar antipathies in the small towns in which these plays were performed. A profile of individuals like Squire Bartlett and Josiah Bumble, as well as a glimpse of the familial and communal tensions they may have caused with their old-fashioned morality, emerge from this reminiscence of boyhood years in a small town during the 1890's. Henry Seidel Canby recalls: It was the grand-parents you had to watch out for. Every family had a great-aunt Lizzie or a grandma Smith with a thimble for knuckles and a withering voice. While the grandfathers, when they were not affec- tionate, looked through Children as if they were not there. Moralities also came from the next genera- tion but one. The parents talked a great deal about example and being being worthy, but were distinctly shy of the Bible and damnation. The truth was that our own parents trusted the community. Sociologically speaking, they had confidence in their civilization and resented a little the constant reference to Old Testament threatenings from the elders. They believed that our own town, and particularly our neighborhood and our circle of friends and relations, was an ex- cellent place to grow up. . . . It never oc- curred to them to insulate us from what was for them American life, because, unlike their successors, they believed in it. 33Canby, The Age of Confidence: Life in the Nineties (New York: Ferrar and RinEHart, 1934), p. 81.—— 180 Although tensions stemming from differing attitudes on the part of succeeding generations towards traditional moral and social codes were but a small reflection of broader currents of change in the national culture, these tensions have been given artistic expression in innocent outlaw melodramas and, therefore, may help later ages to understand the reactions of common people to the broader changes. In direct contrast to the 'super-ego' character types, the formula also called for a group of characters who represented the 'id' forces of the community's total personality. Hall describes the id in the individual per- sonality as "the world of subjective reality in which the pursuit of pleasure and the avoidance of pain are the only functions that count."34 Of course, the most obvious representatives of this group were the self-gratifying, brutish, nearly inarticulate villains, such as the drunkard James Marrigold, in Fairfax, or Marjorie's degenerate, ex- convict husband, Bill, in Clouds and Sunshine. A common device was to balance the animal-like dumbness of such villains with the glibness and high-flown speech of an in- dividual who shared their orientation to pleasure-seeking, but lacked some of their gruffness. In Fairfax, for ex- ample, Webster Winne may be heard boasting that ”there's a 34Hall, p. 27. 181 heap of poetry in Webster Winne" (I.i.156). Throughout the play, he may be heard employing big words and pseudo— poetiC speech. Similarly, in Clouds and Sunshine, George Tucker, the minister's lazy brother who has been acquainted with Marjorie's husband in the city, uses fancy words to express his pleasure-seeking intentions. When asked by Joe what his plans for the future include, for example, George replied: The future is of no concern to me. I live only in the present and find it much more to my fastidious tastes, than delving into the unseen and finding possible [sic] unpleasant things- (I.i.8.) Evidently playwrights wished their audiences to add pompos- ity and pretentiousness to the long list of negative per- sonality traits surrounding the so-called 'second man' characters. But no matter what their language may have betokened to audiences, the libidinous intentions of the characters was clear. Not all villains in the outlaw melodramas required the services of a more articulate counterpart to offset their lack of communication skills. The 1880's witnessed the rise of a more urbane, dandified villain in popular melodrama. Hoyt comments on the origins of this kind of character in an innocent outlaw drama that became a stan- dard in repertoire, The Silver King: There was a time when all villains were roughnecks. That was before Henry Arthur Jones wrote The Silver King for Wilson Barrett. The man who made life miserable 182 for Wilfred Denver, enacted by Barrett, was the Spider. . . . A rising young actor named E. S. Willard, who was assigned the role decided that the roughneck was out- moded. So he created the Desperate Desmond that heavies copied for years--a cigarette smoking, whip-carrying silk-hatted mis- creant whose polished exterior and hypocriti-35 cal smile disarmed everyone but the audience. Examples of more sophisticated villains in other innocent outlaw dramas were: Leslie Blackburn, in The Phoenix; Gil Darkwood, in Hick'ry Farm; and Sid Woodward, in Crawford's Claim. But the most notable example was the aristocratic, smooth-talking Harvard quarterback, Lennox Sanderson, in Way Down East. Whereas super-ego characters were typically linked with old-fashioned life styles and values, in most cases the 'id' characters, both villains and the second man characters, were associated with modernized, urban life styles and values. The association of evil characters with urban values was, of course, intended to play upon the traditional agrarian fears and mistrust of city life that were being brought to new levels of intensity by rapid ur- banization. In the most frequently seen treatment of the formula in which the main action takes place in a rural village or a gold rush mining camp, the city looms in the background as the site of the outlaw's initial 'fall'. Each of the following outlaw heroines was deceived or otherwise mistreated by men in the city: Anna Moore, in 35Hoyt, Town Hall Tonight, p. 89. 183 Way Down East; Marjorie Morgan, in Clouds and Sunshine; Mary Blake, in David Harum; and Helene Grey, in Out pp the Fold. Corrine Blair, in The Only Road, meanwhile, has merely worked in the city, but this is enough to warrant the suspicion of the small town characters in that play. Such falsely accused heroes as Herb Stanton, in Crawford's Claim; Herbert Craincross, in Jedediah Judkins, J.P.; and Dick Fairlee, in Nevada, pp The Lost Mine, came to mining camps after false accusations in the city at the hands of worldly-wise villains. Fairlee's description of how he fell in with bad companionship in the city was highly typical of the popular literature of the era. He [Stephen Carliss] took a fancy to me. He called himself my friend. He invited me to his rooms. Insisted I be his com- panion on drives to the theatre and other amusements. (III.i.29) Then, after winning Dick's trust and lowering his moral standards, Carliss tricked Dick into attempting to cash a forged check.' The forgery is noticed by the bank teller; and Dick flees to the gold rush mining camps in confusion, shame, and fear. There was a tendency in popular melodrama of the late-nineteenth-century to link urban villains with immi- grants and ethnics. This tendency may be noted in such innocent outlaw formulas as The Phoenix and The Great Diamond Robbepy. In the first play, villain, Leslie Blackburn, is assisted in his financial chicanery by Moses Solomon, a stereotyped Jewish character. Both the 184 villainess and the second man are foreigners in The Great Diamond Robbery; Mary Bulford and her brother Mario Marino belong to an international coterie of wealthy and treacherous jewel thieves. In both plays, the victimized outlaw is a working-class American struggling to make a living in the city. To a certain extent, then, the 'id' Characters in the formula's society have been shown to be representative of various stereotypical traits that rural audiences may have associated with city life and City dwellers. Whether it be a brutish and mean blackguard involved with criminal activities in the city (Bill Morgan, in Clouds and Sunshine), an urbane businessman with ethnic assistants (Leslie Black- burn, in The Phoenix), or a sophisticated, Harvard-educated city-slicker (Lennox Sanderson, in Way Down East), the vil- lainous characters tended to personify those aspects of the new, urban way of life that agrarians feared and mis- trusted. To complete the terms of the analogy between Freud's tripartite structure and the structure of the for- mula, the lover/defender figures represent the 'ego' sys- tem in their respective dramas. Hall speaks of the ego as "the executive of the personality, controlling and gov- erning the id and the superego and maintaining commerce with the external world in the interests of the total 185 36 In the dramas, personality and its far-flung needs." lover/defenders performed ego-like functions by occupying a middle ground between the generally older generation of restraint-oriented super-ego characters, and the generally younger generation of id characters, who, by their words and actions, display a resentment towards restraint. As noted in the last chapter, the lover/defender figure was either the actual biological offspring of authority fig- ures (e.g., David Bartlett, in Way Down East), or a fig- urative 'child' of the community due to his strong moral ties to the authority figures (e.g., Rev. Joe Tucker, in Clouds and Sunshine). Hence, he shares the concerns of the authority figures for the general well-being of the - community. On the other hand, the characters also share the youth, the energy, the curiosity, and at least some of the passion for living that the 'id' characters possess. What brings matters to a state of crisis in the relations between the ego character and the other two types of characters is the introduction of the innocent outlaw. The innocent outlaw disrupts matters in the on- stage society for several reasons. First, he has been exposed to the unrestrained, unfamiliar life style and habits of the id characters. Although the exposure may have been involuntary, it has had an effect on the outlaw. 36Hall, p. 28. 186 It has been a primal scene that has caused him to adapt a new life/new identity. Furthermore, it has introduced a significantly strong element of insecurity and tension into his life, since his past must be hidden from his present associates. Both the primal scene and its effects combine to surround the outlaw with an air of experience and mystery that is quite inimical to the morally and socially conservative super-ego characters. In play after play, outlaws are shown to be sources of irritation to members of the community, because they simply do not fit in some- how. In her disguised identity as Billy Piper, for in- stance, Nancy Williams, in The Danites, is confronted by the Parson with the following words of warning: You're not sociable enough. . . . Why, we we eat, drink, work, and sleep together, while you live all by yourself and don't even have a partner! That won't do in California. (II i 20) Similarly, in Clouds and Sunshine and The Only Road, heroines are censured for their refusal to discuss their past lives with overly inquisitive super-ego characters who feel it their duty to inquire on behalf of the com- munity at large. The outlaw's presence causes two other types of disruption of community life as the authority figures might wish it to be. First, the growing love match between the outlaw and the lover/defender upsets the establish- ment because they have ordained that the 'child' of their community shall marry someone of their own choosing. 187 David Bartlett, in Way Down East, for example, is expected by his father, the Squire, and other elders to marry a socially approved neighbor and friend of the family. Even Nancy Williams, in The Danites, arouses the suspicion and jealousy of the mining community because, in her disguise as a male, she spends so much time with the local school- marm. The miners resent this competition from an unmanly, unsociable rival, so sentiment runs strongly against 'Billy' in the camp. Secondly, the most dramatic dis- ruption of community life comes when the repressed 'id' characters reappear in the outlaw's new life to claim him almost literally for their own. Stephen Carliss, the vil- lain in Nevada, pp the Lost Mine, for instance, arrives disguised as a lawman in search of Dick Fairlee. The Danites ('avenging angels') come to incite a tar and feather party for Billy Piper, because they have discovered 'him' to be Nancy Williams, the woman whom they seek to murder. Finally, Marjorie's degenerate husband, in Clouds and Sunshine, arrives to claim his duly married wife. In these ways, then, the outlaw is responsible for bringing the three elements of the on-stage society into contact and conflict with one another. In the conflict between the three elements, the judgments zuul actions of the ego character, the lover/ defender, are shown by the workings of the formula to be the most reasonable, the most tolerant, and, above all, the most conducive to the overall well-being of the on- 188 stage community. Like the ego in the individual personal- ity, the lover/defender finds the middle ground between principles of restraint and principles of licence. He shields the outlaw not only from the aggressive impulses of the pleasure seekers, but from the intolerance of the establishment as well. And, in the final, public recog- nition of the outlaw's innocence and virtue, the lover's defense of the outlaw, his faith in her virtue, and his love for her are all vindicated. Just as the individual dreamer benefits from the self-address of dreams in which the three systems of his personality come into conflict, so too the audiences of repertoire benefited from the communal self-address of the formula-drama in which projected characters representing the three sectors of their communities came into conflict. Projections of the older, traditionally minded Class of small towner came into conflict with characters who repre- sented the new, more liberated, urban classes. In this conflict, neither the new nor the older value system was shown to be totally acceptable. The synthesis between these extremes represented by the lover/defender figure was the optimal response to the situation brought about by the introduction of the unexpected, new element of the in- nocent outlaw's presence. The synthesis of old and new symbolized the best type response that the community might make to the rapid economic,political, and social changes that were bringing about the crisis of confidence in 189 community autonomy in rural small towns. Another aspect of the dream dimension that probably contributed to the popular appeal of the formula was the strong element of wish—fulfillment engendered by the new life/new identity motif. Although the Circumstances be- hind the protagonist's flight to a new locale (or his adoption of disguised identity) were not enviable ones, the idea of the flight itself--breaking away from the past and starting fresh in a new locale and social milieu--was probably an attractive one for people who lived routine lives in small towns during the repertoire era. Further- more, since so many rural townships witnessed depletion of population, it is probable that the actual lives of small town residents would have contained numerous examples of family, friends, and neighbors who broke away from their 37 The in- past lives to move to larger towns and cities. nocent outlaw drama may have provided those who remained behind with an opportunity to make a similar break in fantasy. But the stimulus to identify in fantasy with the outlaw's flight came not only from boredom with the rou- tines of life, and the knowledge that others had abandoned 37For useful statistical information concerning the depletion of rural townships and the movement to the City, see Henry J. Fletcher, The Drift pp Population pp Cities: Remedies, in American Issues: Vol. I, The Social Record, pp. 740-44; and, Eric Monkkonen, "Socializing the New Urbanites: Horatio Alger Jr.'s Guidebooks,” Journal of Popular Culture, XI:I (Summer, 1977), pp. 77-87. Monkkonen included a table derived from census figures. 190 small towns. It came also from a sense of anxiety and curiosity concerning what was going on in other parts of the American community. Historian Neil Harris points out that "the cultural life of this era [1880-1901] was the product of social anxiety and general curiosity, of a restless, sometimes desperate desire to learn the habits, the thoughts, the working patterns, and dreams of others 38 He traced the reasons for this in the community." curiosity to the rapid improvements in technology that had not only increased the tempo of social and physical change, but had also increased man's ability to chart and record that Change, as well. Thus, developments in such areas as photography, sound recording, magazine and news- paper publishing, and tourist transportation contributed to the ”discovery of pluralities--of age, class, national- ity, condition--which made up the American community."39 Within this nationwide phenomenon of discovery, Harris states that the element of disguising one's identity played a prominent part in allowing individuals to fully savor and examine the American scene. He observes: The new collectivities, the new social roles--casualties as well as beneficiaries of industrialization and urbanization-- invited investigation. But casual observa- tion was no longer possible; no one could retain his own identity and claim to 38Harris, Land pp Contrasts, p. 6. 39Harris, p. 6. 191 understand this world of new relation- ships and systems. A new cultural strategy was needed. It became an age of disguise. Reporters, novelists, sociologists, and economists became tramps, workmen, depart- ment store Clerks, and urban transients, piecing together the experiences of the hidden or the submerged, revealing whole subcultures of deviance and poverty. Thus, the fictional formula with its image of a person dis- guising or subverting his own identity to live in another social context echoed an idea that many individuals during the age found appealing. In the dream dimension of the formula, audiences could act out the intriguing idea of disguised discovery in fantasy. Summary The years that comprised the peak years of opera house repertoire, 1880 to 1914, were years of tremendous social, political, economic, and cultural change in the United States. The nation was being rapidly transformed from a rural, agrarian culture with traditional ideals of individual freedom and responsibility, to an urban, indus- trial culture with a pragmatic orientation to corporate management, organized labor, and standardized goods. In this rapid transformation, individuals at all levels of society were subject to feelings of confusion, bewilder- ment, and loss of personal autonomy. Individuals living 4oHarris, p. 14. 192 in the rural communities in which repertoire troupes per— formed were subject to these feelings, as well as a thoroughgoing loss in confidence in the powers of their own communities. Amid this generally felt loss of personal and com- munal autonomy, the innocent outlaw formula-drama per- formed several notable cultural and psychological functions. First of all, as social ritual, the formula appealed to the individual's sense of loss of personal autonomy by presenting an image of a protagonist whose normal relations with society are disrupted causing him to lose his social identity and respectability. On the other hand, it ap- pealed to communal fears concerning loss of self-determina- tion by providing a nostalgic vision of the type of per- sonalized society that was felt to be disappearing with the rise of industrialism and moderniZation. The final tableau of the drama allayed both personal and communal fears with a blissfully idyllic image of the wronged individual redeemed by a community that has proven itself worthy of the nostalgic vision of the personalized society. As a type of game, the formula presented a means of escape and ego-enhancement by portraying an idealized world in which virtuous conduct is always rewarded, and a personalized society that always recognizes the social identity and moral worth of its individual members. In presenting the fall, expulsion, and redemption of the oppressed individual, the game dimension may have provided 193 ego-enhancement and a gratifying fantasized resolution to the problems created by the fall of farmers from their former positions of prestige and respect as the nation's yeomen. Finally, as a form of collective dreaming process, the formula provided a means by which various sectors of the community could communicate and express tensions and reservations concerning one another's value systems. Pro- jected characters, for example, represented the genera- tion gap that was created by the rapid decline of tradi— tional moral and social codes in the period following the Civil War. In addition, the new life/new identity motif. provided a means by which individuals could explore in fantasy the life patterns of other people and other sec- tors of society. CHAPTER V SUMMARY AND CONCLUSIONS Modernization brought drama to the Beaver Dams; to a great extent, it shaped the plays' form, tone, and content; and, it ultimately destroyed live theatre as a major entertain— ment form for common Americans. With these words, Robert C. Toll effectively cap- sulizes the history of repertoire and its drama. As an in- stitution, repertoire has been shown to be both a product and an ultimate victim of modernization. It owed its ini- tial growth and its subsequent popular success to the sym- bolic harbinger of modernization and mechanization--the railroad. The boom in opera house construction along the newly laid rail lines between 1880 and 1910 symbolized the growing prosperity, the increased leisure time, and the changing attitudes towards recreational and cultural acti- vities that marked small town life during a period of economic expansion. In the local opera houses, repertoire troupes joined lyceum courses, minstrel shows, lecturers, concert organizations, and other entertainment forms in 1Toll, pp With the Show, p. 170. 194 195 presenting images from America's past to satisfy a nostal- gia for a simpler time, as well as images from America's present to quench a growing curiosity concerning the changes brought on by modernization in a more and more complex world. Like its origins and rise, the decline of reper- toire was intimately bound up with the forces of moderni- zation. In both the opera house and the tent show era, the repertoire manager was an excellent model of the type of local, small-time, independent business entrepreneur who was being continually threatened by the combined forces of corporations and new technology. The history of repertoire is filled with dozens of examples of managers such as Harley Sadler of Texas, Richard R. Henderson of Michigan, and Neil Schaffner of Iowa, who were natives of the states or regions in which they toured throughout their theatrical careers.2 These and other men and women like them had worked their way up from the ranks of actors in local companies, before branching out as managers of their own troupes. As managers, they competed successfully with metropolitan combination companies, one—nighter organizations, and, later, with the 2Information on Sadler was gained through Clifford Ashby, "Trouping Through Texas: Harley Sadler and His Own Show," (paper presented at the Conference on the History of American Popular Entertainment, American Society for Theatre Research and the Theatre Library Association, New York, 19 Nov. 1977). Conference papers are to be published at a future date. For information on Henderson, see Klassen, "Tent-Reper- toire Theatre," esp. pp. 15-30. For information on Schaffner, see Schaffner, Fabulous Toby, esp. pp. 44-73, and passim. 196 motion picture industry by stressing the strong personal bonds between themselves and their audiences that their competitors could not hope to achieve. Through such prac- tices as making annual visits to towns in their established territories, frequent quartering of cast members in local homes, entering into promotional campaigns with local mer- chants, and giving individualized speeches of welcome to each of the audiences in a town followed up by final words of parting at the end of the week's run, the managers prompted small towners to think of their troupes as "estab- lished local institutions," and of themselves as regional, independent businessmen maintaining strong personal rapport with their clientele in the traditions of the small-town businessman.3 However, like other kinds of small-time, independent entrepreneurs, the repertoire manager could not survive the onslaughts of modernization. Each new technological ad- vance in the entertainment industry--the invention of motion pictures, the addition of sound to create the 'talkies', and the commercial development of radio--took its toll on the numbers of successful repertoire troupes. The automobile and improvements in the nation's highway system made it possible even for residents of the smallest, most remote towns to drive to larger cities to see professional 3Mickel, Footlights, p. 60. 197 productions. And, finally, the rise of unionization in industry created wages and working conditions that lured actors and technical staff from the hard life of touring show business,4 while the rise of theatrical unions made it more and more difficult for the average manager to maintain the type of autonomy that had once allowed him to cut cor- ners at the expense of his cast and crew.5 In short, reper- toire died not only because of the Depression in the 1930's, but because the forces of modernization had so drastically changed the society that it had served for so long. Just as the effects of modernization were reflected in its institutional development and decline, so too a typical melodramatic fare of repertoire has been shown re- flecting and expressing the effects of modernization upon average small town Americans during the turn-of-the-century era. Since the central concern of this study has been to demonstrate specific ways in which that process of reflec- tion and expression took place in the dramas, a three- part methodology was evolved. To begin with, it was necessary to define the social base of repertoire's audience as a mainly rural, small town, lower and lower-middle class family audience. Next, it was necessary to show strong links between the artists of 4Slout, Theatre, p. 112. 5Harold Rosier, private taped interview, Jackson, Mich., Nov., 1973. 198 repertoire and that particular audience, especially with respect to the drama. One type of evidence for such links lay in the strong personal rapport between the management and cast of the troupes, and the towns in their established territories. But, more importantly, the links between the audiences and the drama were demonstrated with reference to the rise of manager-playwrights such as Milton Nobles, Charles Harrison, George Crawley, Neil Schaffner, and others; and to the rise of play brokerage agencies that specialized in plays for rural troupes. These playwrights translated their knowledge of small town life into characters, situations, conflicts, and ideas that were reflective of actual life, and, therefore, were of great appeal to small towners. The final, most extensive stage of the methodology involved generalizing the characteristics of one type of repertoire drama according to John G. Cawelti's concept of formula methodology.6 The application of the prinCiples of this method to a large number of popular dramas, approxi- mately 130 in all, has revealed the presence of several major formulas, or conventional systems for the organization of conventional elements of plot, character, setting, and theme. There were romantic formulas such as the 'children 6For a discussion of the general effectiveness of the formula methodology as it has been applied in this study, see infra, Appendix B. 199 of two cultures' formula; adventure formulas such as the 'outlaw hero' formula; comedy formulas such as the 'wise- fool triumphant' formula; and others. However, among the various formulas encountered, none was more prevalent than two melodramatic formulas--the 'orphan found' formula; and the 'innocent outlaw' formula. Taken together these melodramatic formulas account for approximately 40 of the 130 popular dramas consulted-- in other words, they account for nearly a third of the total number of plays. Neither formula enjoyed a dis- tinctly higher rate of frequency of occurrence than the other; each was represented in approximately 20 dramas. Among these dramas there were a substantial number of the plays which Slout, Mickel, Hoyt, and others have described as the standards of the repertoire tradition.7 It is important to add a proviso to these statistical observa- tions, however. The proviso is that since exact scientific procedures of play selection, content analysis, and statis- tical accounting have not been followed in this study, these statistical conclusions and comparisons must be pre- sented here as tentative observations or hypotheses, rather than final statements. The two most prevalent melodramatic formulas share several key points of similarity. Since these similarities 7See especially Slout, Theatre, pp. 71-101; Mickel, pp. 63-70; and Hoyt, Town Hall, pp. 75-94. 200 will figure in a final discussion of the general nature of popular melodrama, they will be outlined briefly here. To begin with, both formulas take their thematic keynotes from the disruption of a virtuous protagonist's normal re- lationship with a social unit—-the family in the orphan formula; and the community in the outlaw formula. Next, both formulas feature an important discovery scene between the protagonist and a figure from his past--the natural parent of the orphan; and the repressed figure with know- ledge of the outlaw's past. Third, each type of drama en- tails a rising cycle of conflict between the protagonist and a character who possesses stereotypical traits associ- ated with a sector of society besides the rural, working classes-—the character with aristocratic coldness who oc— cupies the orphan's rightful position; and the city charac- ters who emerge to threaten the outlaw in his new life/new identity. And finally, each formula celebrates the restora- tion of the social unit to its previous state of integrity and wholeness--the orphan is returned to his rightful familial and social positions; the outlaw is recognized as virtuous and restored to his former social identity and res- pectability. However, although the formulas possessed similar dramatic elements and enjoyed similar levels of popularity, the innocent outlaw has been singled out here for a thorough exploration of its cultural and psychological im- plications. It has been argued that the formula's 201 depiction of tensions between an individual and his com- munity constituted a richer context for the examination of cultural and societal issues and tensions, than the other leading melodramatic formula could offer. The close examination and critical study of the outlaw formula has revealed specific ways in which the for- mula-dramas synthesized various cultural and psychological dynamics for the rural, working class audiences of reper- toire. These dynamics were discovered through viewing the formulas in each of their cultural dimensions--as ritual; as game; and as collective dream--and through drawing his- torical analogues to each of these cultural dimensions. In its ritual dimension, the formula has been shown reaffirming traditional morality through its depiction of the recognition of virtue and the punishment of vice. Aside from this generic function, however, the formula was also seen reaffirming a culturally-rooted faith in the merits of the type of personalized society that was quickly disappearing with modernization. In its game dimension, the formula presented melodrama's generic moral fantasy of world in which moral behavior inevitably leads to recog— nition and reward. In addition to this, however, as a specific melodramatic formula, it provided ego—enhancement and escape through its presentation of a socially equivalent fantasy of a community in which the individual's identity and moral worth are inevitably recognized. This fantasy was shown to have particular appeal to rural audiences at 202 a time when the agrarian way of life had fallen from its previous state of prestige in American culture due to the rapid rise of the urban-industrial society. Finally, in its dream dimension, the formula's ten- sions between super-ego and id characters was seen reflect- ing actual generational tensions associated with the de- cline of traditional social and moral values, and the rise of urban-industrial values. In addition, the formula's motif of a new life/new identity in a new social environ- ment was seen appealing to a general curiosity and anxiety concerning other ways of life in the rapidly changing American scene. Such, then, were the major cultural and psychologi- cal implications synthesized for rural, working class audiences by the innocent outlaw formula. It was the combination of these social and cultural dynamics, along with such aesthetic factors as the pleasure associated with a familiar theme and inventive variation, that helped to account for the relatively high rate of occurrence that the formula enjoyed in repertoire drama. The relation be— tween the social, psychological, and aesthetic dynamics is complex. It would be incorrect, for example, to attribute the success or the cultural significance of the formula to one particular factor working in isolation from the others. Part of the reason that the era found the formula so appealing lay in the fact that it could accommodate such a diversity of meanings within a single conventional 203 structure. However, if a single element is to be singled out as chief among the equals, that element should be the aesthetic element.8 For a formula may fulfill any number of social and cultural dynamics and functions, but it probably will not survive for long without inventive play- wrights such as Milton Nobles, Lottie Blair Parker, and Joaquin Miller who are able to revitalize the conventions of the formula by introducing the fresh currents of con- temporary characters and concerns. Popular Melodrama: pp Experience pp the Social Self The experience of melodrama is essentially an ex- perience of the social self. Melodrama presents the image of a protagonist who is ppple, in the sense that he/she has no substantial division or disruption within his/her inner, private self such as a tragic protagonist might bear;a There is, however, an external disruption in his life. This dis- ruption flows from his society and deeply affects him not in his inner, private self, but in his outer, social self. From our objective viewpoint as audience members, we are able to perceive that the disruption the protagonist experiences in melodrama is not only a disruption of his own personal life, but a disruption in the smooth operation 8Cawelti, Six-Gun Mystique, pp. 85-86. 9In this final essay, I am endebted to Heilman, Tragedy and Melodrama, pp. 95-105. 204 of the on-stage society's life as well. The unwarranted fall of the innocent outlaw from virtue in the eyes of his society, or the accidental displacement of the orphan from her rightful familial and social positions, are signs that the society has an unwholesome division between its inter- nal parts. Our empathy with the protagonist in this situa- tion, therefore, is intimately bound up with a concern for the whole, undivided person's social relationship to his society. And, rather than gradually receding as they might in tragedy, our social concerns grow more and more pre- dominant as the melodrama unfolds. The reason our social concerns grow rather than diminish in melodrama is that the disorder in the fictional society helps to define the benefits of effective social pppep within a community. Especially in the cases of such persecuted outlaw heroines as Nancy Williams, in The Danites, or Marjorie Morgan, in Clouds and Sunshine, for example, it becomes painfully evident that these unfortunate individuals desperately require the protection and security that only a well-disposed society can provide. As the forces of the obstacle mount to threaten the outlaw with renewed ex- pulsion, or to threaten the orphan with continued displace— ment from her rightful place, our sensitivities cry out for the return of the society to its former state of integrity and wholesomeness, to its former state of pppep. Thus, whereas empathy with a divided protagonist might lead to perceptions of problems facing us in our 205 inner, private selves, empathy with the undivided protagon- ist of melodrama prompts us to set inner, private con- cerns aside, and contemplate problems that might affect each of us in our external, social selves. In the final tableau of the melodrama, we are presented with a vision of a restored reintegrated society that reaffirms the social, cultural, and moral truths and ideals that each of us in a particular culture must share as individual, neces— sarily social human beings. One might paraphrase Coleridge's famous dictum to say that the experience of melodrama re- quires ”willing suspension of [private] disbelief for the moment which constitutes [social] faith."10 The popular melodramas of the repertoire era were written and performed at a time when many Americans were experiencing doubts and private anxieties concerning the fundamental Changes that were taking place during an abrupt transition between the rural, agrarian past and the urban, industrialized future. The experience of the popular melo- dramas of repertoire permitted a certain segment of society-- the rural, small town working classes--to suspend temporarily these private concerns and doubts to celebrate a vision of the traditional social and moral ideals that had helped to shape and mold the society and the nation they had known in 10Coleridge, Biographia Literaria, II, Chapter 14, p. 6. The original quotation reads: "That willing sus- pension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic faith." 206 the past. Each of the leading melodramatic formulas con— tributed to this process by celebrating the virtues of one of the traditional social units that had taken part in the shaping of the traditional way of life. The orphan found formula celebrated the individual's ties to his family, his race, and his ethnic background. It also paid homage to the virtues of life among the poorer, less sophisticated common people. The innocent outlaw formula, on the other hand, celebrated the virtues of the individual's ties to a local, personalized society that recognized his social identity and his inherent moral worth. APPENDI CES APPENDI X A APPENDIX A The Controversy Concernipg the Origins pp Toby Two innocent outlaw dramas--Clouds and Sunshine by W. C. Herman and Qpp pp ppepgplp_by Langdon McCormick-- figure prominently in the controversy concerning the exact origins of the Toby Character. Although the claims and counter-claims of the controversy are difficult to sum— marize briefly, it may prove useful to phrase the main points of contention in terms derived from Cawelti's theories. The main questions, then, become: A) Which particular actor took the conventional outlines of the 'silly kid' character and added the inventional elements of red hair and freckles to the appearance of the charac- ter? B) In which particular play did the actor develop these added invented elements? C) Did a suggestion from the audience prompt the actor and his manager to name all silly kid roles in their repertory of past, present, and yet be written plays, ”Toby"; or, was this inventional naming element a strictly behind the scenes decision on the part of the manager and the actor? It is generally agreed that the actor Fred Wilson of a troupe known as Murphy's Comedians was the originator 207 208 of the invented elements that were to become, in turn, the new conventions of the former silly kid character.1 Con- cerning the conventional red-wig that was to become the Toby trademark, Micket states, "Toby did not acquire this part of his dress until Fred Wilson's naturally red hair established the convention.” He further states that after Wilson's popularity in the role, ”audiences subsequently demanded that this role be played by the actor using red hair and freckles.”2 While there is general agreement concerning Wil- son's role as the inventor of the new elements of charac- ter, there is disagreement as to the play he developed these elements in, and the year the production took place. In the influential article in Theatre Arts that helped spark the current interest in the Toby character and tent show, Robert Downing argued that Wilson developed the role in a 1909 production of Clouds and Sunshine playing the character Tobe Haxton.3 Mickel agreed with Downing as to the play, but disagreed as to the date. Referring to copyright information and other data, he set the date as 1911.4 Downing and Mickel concur that the tent-show 1Schaffner, Fabulous Toby, pp. 2-6, & passim, claims that he originated the Toby characterization, but his claim has been generally disregarded by repertoire his- torians. See Slout, Theatre,pp. 91-92; and, Mickel, Foot- lights, p. 149. 2Mickel, pp. 148-49. 3Downing, "Toby,” pp. 652-54. 4Mickel, p. 149. 209 legend was essentially correct that a member of the audience (either a young boy or an old man) made the sug- gestion to Wilson and his manager, Horace Murphy, that "the same name should be given to the character played the same way every night by the same man with never changing physical characteristic even though the plays were different."5 Evidently, the patron had become con- fused by seeing Wilson as Tobe Haxton in Clouds and Sunshine on Monday night, as Toby Tompkins in Out pp the Fold on Tuesday night, and as Bud in Won py Waiting on Wednesday night. The uniform name of Toby was suggested 6 If, indeed, this to eliminate this source of confusion. story is accurate, it forms a fascinating chapter in the history of small-time popular theatre since it indicates a close connection between audience tastes and predilec- tions, and the origins of a popular convention that was to be known and loved by millions of small-town, rural audience members for three or four decades. Slout has argued that the older play Qpp pp ppe Eplp was the more likely alternative and that the legen- dary story was probably apocryphal.7 Noting that the similarities between the two plays lead one to suspect that Herman borrowed heavily from the long popular favorite 5Mickel, p. 148. 6Mickel, p. 149. 7Slout, Theatre, pp. 90-97. 210 Out pp the Fold in his writing of Clouds and Sunshine, Slout summarizes his arguments as follows: Murphy's Comedians was organized in 1910 in Louisiana. By the spring of 1911 the com- pany had worked its way to Illinois where it remained until late June. During the stay in Illinois, Fred Wilson joined the cast.. .. Murphy was impressed with the comic character of Toby Tompkins (Qpp pp the Fold), as played by Wilson. That very evening they talked about the role and decided to try using the name Toby for all the rube kids that Wilson was portraying. So intent were they in this plan, that they not only Changed the names of the characters, but re-wrote the plays to accommodate a silly kid. Moreover, Murphy told Alex Byers or Cal Herman or someone else connected with the Chicago Manuscript Company of his success with Qpp pp the Fold. With this knowledge, Herman immediately turned out Clouds and Sunshine in the mold of McCormick's play, with Byers copyrighting it in September of 1911.8 While Slout's explanation may lack some of the folksiness of the Downing-Mickel theory, it seems to account more cogently for such objectively provable matters as copyright dates, differences in the age of the two plays, and the dates and itineraries of the troupe involved. 8 Slout, Theatre, p. 97. APPENDIX B APPENDIX B Notes pp the Effectiveness pp the Formula Methodology Although John G. Cawelti's formula methodology required considerable adaptation for use with popular melo- dramas, it has proven in its adapted form to be an effec- tive analytical and critical tool for the examination of large numbers of individual dramas. It has proven fruit- ful for several reasons. First of all, in the initial analysis of approximately 130 popular dramas, the method provided a means by which atypical, unrepresentative treat- ments could be separated from the more conventional, more typical examples. Secondly, in that initial stage, it provided a structure within which dramas with similar plots, characters, and situations could be categorized for future reference and comparison. Thirdly, as famili- arity with standard formulas was acquired, a series of diagnostic checkpoints could be developed that gave rather direct means of access to a particular drama's specific social or moral concerns. Thus, for example, in initial analysis of an outlaw formula-drama, one might ask: Who is the authority figure? and, Which of his articulated moral or social codes may prove to be a barrier to the outlaw's 211 212 acceptance by that society? Such questions facilitated matters in both the analysis and the critical stages of the study. To move from the initial stages of study to later stages, another major reason for the effectiveness of the formula method has been that it provided a critical frame- work that allowed the synthesis of various viewpoints and approaches both to popular drama in general and to melo- drama in particular. In recent years, there have been two developments that have proven relevant and useful to this study as a whole. First, in the social sciences, the growing concern for the effects of violence in television drama particularly upon youthful viewers has proven a leading stimulus towards significant studies of the nature and functions of popular drama in a society. The perspec- tives of sociologists J. S. R. Goodlad and H. D. Duncan have been especially helpful in this study. Second, in humanistic studies, the growing interest in popular cul- ture as a means to discover the concerns and desires of the common people of a given era has, perhaps, been a leading stimulus behind the rather thoroughgoing reevalua- tion of the genre of melodrama that has taken place in the 1960's and 1970's. This study has benefited not only from perspectives contributed by critics and historians of drama, such as Eric Bentley, Frank Rahill, and Michael Booth, but from insights gathered from social historians such as David Grimsted and literary critics such as Peter 213 Brooks. The formula method, with its insistence upon a diversity of explanations and interpretations of the cul- tural, aesthetic, and psychological significance of popu- lar formulas, has permitted the integration of several of the most noteworthy contributions from both the social sciences and humanistic criticism. BIBLIOGRAPHY BIBLIOGRAPHY A. Books Anderson, Wilbert L. The Country Town: A Study in Rural Evolution. New York: Doubleday, Page, & Co., 1914. Beardsley, Monroe C. Aesthetics From Classical Greece to the Present: A Short History. University of Ala- bama: University of Alabama Press, 1966. Bentley, Eric. The Life of the Drama. New York: Atheneum, 1972. Bernheim, Alfred. The Business of the Theatre: An Economic History of the American Theatre, 1750-1932. New York: B. Blom, Inc., 1964. Berthoff, Rowland L. An Unsettled People: Social Order and Disorder in American History. New York: Harper & Row, Pub., 1971. Booth, Michael R. English Melodrama. London: Herbert Jenkins, 1965. Brockett, Oscar. The Essential Theatre. New York: Holt, Rinehart, Winston, 1976. Brooks, Peter. The Melodramatic Imagination: Balzac, Henry James, Melodrama, and The Mode of Excess. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1976. Brooks, Van Wyck. The Confident Years: 1885-1915. New York: E. P. Dutton & Co., Inc., 1952. Brown, T. Allston. History of the American Stage. New York: Dick and Fitzgerald, 1870. Canby, Henry Seidel. The Age of Confidence: Life in the Nineties. New York: Farrar & Rinehart, 1934. Case, Victoria and Case, Robert 0. We Called It Culture. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday & Co., Inc., 1948. 214 215 Cawelti, John G. Adventure, Mystery, and Romance: Formula Stories as Art and Popular Culture. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1976. The Six-Gun Mystique. Bowling Green, Ohio: Bowling Green University Popular Press, 1971. Cerf, Bennett and Cartmell, Van H. S. R. 0.: The Most Successful Plays of the American Stage. Garden City, N.Y.: Harpers, 1944. Clark, Barrett H., ed. America's Lost Plays. 2nd. ed. 20 Vols. Bloomington, Indiana University Press, 1963. Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. Biographia Literaria. Edited by J. Shawcross. 2 Vols. London: Oxford University Press, 1949. . Shakespearean Criticism. Edited by T. M. Raysor. 2 Vols. New York: E. P. Dutton & Co., 1960. Critolph, Gerald E. "The Contending Americans." American Character and Culture. Edited by John Hague. Deland, Fla.: E. Edwards Press, 1964. Davis, Owen. I'd Like To Do It All Again. New York: MacMillan, 1931. Disher, Maurice Willson. Melodrama: Plots That Thrilled. New York: MacMillan Co., 1954. Dunbar, Willis Frederick. How It Was In Hartford. Grand Rapids, Michigan: W. B. Erdmans Pub., 1968. Duncan, Hugh Dalziel. Communication and Social Order. New York: Oxford University Press, 1962. Fergusson, Francis. The Idea of a Theatre. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1949. Frye, Northrop. Anatomy of Criticism. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1957. Furnas, J. C. The Americans: A Social History of the United States, 1587-1914. New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1969. Gallaway, Marian. Constructing a Play. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1950. 216 Gallegly, Joseph. Footlights on the Border: The Galveston and Houston Stage Before 1900. The Hague, The Netherlands, Mouton & Co., 1962. Ginger, Ray. Age of Excess: The United States From 1877 to 1914. New York: MacMillan Co., 1965. Goodlad, J. S. R. A Sociology of Popular Drama. Totowa, N.J.: Rowman & Littlefield, 1972. Graham, Philip. Showboats: The History of an American Institution. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1951. Grebanier, Bernard. Playwriting: How to Write for the Theatre. New York: T. W. Crowell Co., 1961. Grimsted, David. Melodrama Unveiled: American Theatre and Culture, 1800-1850. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968. Hague, John A., ed. American Character and Culture: Some Twentieth Century Perspectives. Deland, Florida: Everett Edwards Press, Inc., 1964. Hall, Calvin S. A Primer of Freudian Psychology. A Mentor Book. New York: World Publishing Co., 1954. Hall Stuart and Whannel, Paddy. The Popular Arts: A Critical Guide to the Mass Media. Boston: Beacon Press, 1967. Harris, Neil, ed. The Land of Contrasts, 1880-1901. Vol. V of The American Culture. Edited by Neil Harris. 8 vols. New York: George Braziller, 1970. Harrison, Harry P. Culture Under Canvas: The Stopy of Tent Chautauqua. As told to Karl Detzer. New York: Hastings House Pub., 1958. Harrison, Jane E. Themis: A Study of the Social Origins of Greek Religion. London: Merlin Press, 1963. Harte, Bret. The Writings of Bret Harte. Boston: Houghton-Mifflin, 1896-1914. Hays, Samuel P. The Response to Industrialism: 1885-1914. Vol. IV of The Chicago History of American Civili- zation. Edited by Daniel J. Boorstin. 28 vols. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1969. 217 Herne, James A. Sag Harbor and Other Plays. New York: Samuel French, 1928. Herron, Ima. H. The Small Town in American Drama. Dallas, Texas: Southern Methodist University Press, 1969. Higham, John. "The Reorientation of American Culture in the 1890's" in The Origins of Modern Consciousness. Edited by John Weiss. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1965. Hodge, Francis R. Yankee Theatre: The Image of America on the Stage, 1825-1850. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1965. Hofstadter, Richard. The Age of Reform. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., 1955. Hoogenboom, Ari and Hoogenboom, Olive, eds. The Gilded Age. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1967. Hornblow, Arthur. A Histopy of the Theatre in America. 2 Vols. New York: Benjamin Blom, Inc., 1956. Hoyt, Harlowe R. Town Hall Tonight. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1955. Heilman, Robert Bechtold. Tragedy and Melodrama: Versions of Experience. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1968. Hughes, Glenn. A History of the American Theatre, 1700- 1950. New York: Samuel French, 1951. Hunningher, Benjamin. The Origin of Theatre. New York: Hill and Wang, 1961. ' Krows, Arthur Edwin. Play,Production in America. New York: Holt and Co., 1916. Larrabee, Eric and Meyersohn, Rolf. Mass Leisure. Glencoe, 111.: Free Press, 1958. Leverton, Garrett H. The Great Diamond Robbery and Other Recent Melodramas. Vol. VIII of America's Lost Plays. Edited by Barrett H. Clark. 20 Vols. Bloom- ington: Indiana University Press, 1965. Lewis, Philip C. Trouping: How the Show Came to Town. New York: Harper & Row, 1973. 218 Martin, Jay. Harvests of Change: American Literature, 1865-1914. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice- Hall, Inc., 1967. McLean, Albert F., Jr. American Vaudeville as Ritual. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press, 1965. Mickel, Jere C. Footlights on the Prairie: The Story,of the Repertory Tent Players of the Midwest. St. Cloud, Minn.: North Star Press, 1974. Morgan, H. Wayne, ed., The Gilded Age: A Reappraisal. Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1963. Moody, Richard. America Takes the Stage. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1955. Murray, Gilbert. "Excursus on the Ritual Forms in Greek Tragedy." Themis: A Study of the Social Origins of Greek Religion. Edited by Jane E. Harrison. London: Merlin Press, 1912. Nevis, Allan. Study in Power, John D. Rockefeller. New York: Charles Scpibner's Sons, 1953. Nye, Russel B. The Unembarrassed Muse: The Popular Arts in America. New York: Dial Press, 1970. O'Connor, Richard. Bret Harte: A Biography. Boston: Little, Brown, & Co., 1966. Quinn, Arthur Hobson. A History of the American Drama From the Civil War to the Present Day. New York: Appleton-Century-Crofts, 1964. Rahill, Frank. The World of Melodrama. University Park, Pa.: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1967. Schaffner, Neil E. with Johnson, Vance. The Fabulous Toby and Me. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1968. Schlesinger, Arthur M. The Rise of the City, 1878-1898. Vol. X of A History of American Life. Edited by Arthur M. Schlesinger and Dixon Ryan Fox. 12 Vols. New York: MacMillan Co., 1933. Slout, William L. Theatre in a Tent: The Development of a Provincial Entertainment. Bowling Green, Ohio: Bowling Green University Popular Press, 1972. Strong, Josiah. The Times and Young Men. New York: Baker & Taylor Co., 1901. 219 Tipple, John. "The Robber Baron in the Gilded Age: Entrepreneur or Iconoclast?" The Gilded Age: A Reappraisal. Edited by H. Wayne Morgan. Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1963. Toll, Robert C. Blacking Up: The Minstrel Show in Nine- teenth-Century America. New York: Oxford University Press, 1974. . On With the Show. New York: Oxford Univer- sity Press, 1976. Thorp, Willard; Curti, Merle; and, Baker, Carlos; eds. American Issues: Volume One,_The Social Record. J. B. Lippincott Co., 1944. Verneuil, Louis. The Fabulous Life of Sarah Bernhardt. Translated by Ernest Boyd. New York: Harper & Bros., 1942. Warshow, Robert. The Immediate Experience. New York: Doubleday Anchor Books, 1964. Weiss, John, ed. The Origins of Social Consciousness. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1965. Weiss, Richard. The American Myth of Success: From Horatio Alger to Norman Vincent Peale. New York: Basic Books, Pub., 1969. Wiebe, Robert H. The Search For Order: 1877-1920. Vol. VII of The Making of America. Edited by David Donald. 6 Vols. New York: Hill and Wang, 1967. Wilt, Napier, ed. The White Slave and Other Plays py Bartley Campbell. Vol. 19 of America's Lost Plays. Edited by Barrett H. Clark. 20 Vols. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1965. B. Periodicals Cawelti, John G. "The Concept of Formula in the Study of Popular Literature." Journal of Popular Culture, III, 3 (Winter, 1969), 381-390. Downing, Robert. "Toby." Theatre Arts, XXX (November, 1946), 651-55. 220 Dunbar, Willis Frederick. "The Opera House as a Social Institution in Michigan." Michigan History Magazine, XXVI (October-December, 1943), 661-72. Feldman, David N. ”Formalism and Popular Culture." Journal of Popular Culture, IX, 2 (Fall, 1975), 384-401. Ford, James L. "Our National Stage." McClure's Magazine, XXXII, (April, 1909), 491—99. Gillmore, Frank. ”What the Depression has Done to the Theatre.” Egpity Magazine, XVII (February, 1933), 16. Grimsted, David. "An Idea of Theatre History: An In- formal Plea." Educational Theatre Journal, XXVI, 4 (December, 1974), 425-32. Havig, Alan R. ”American Historians and the Study of Popular Culture." Journal of Popular Culture, XI, 1 (Summer, 1977), 180-92. Jones, Daryl E. ”Clenched Teeth and Curses: Revenge and the Dime Novel Hero." Journal of Popular Culture, VII, 3 (Winter, 1973), 652-65. Kemmerling, James D. ”A History of the Whitley Opera House in Emporia, Kansas: 1881-1913." The Emporia State Research Studies, XVIII, 3 (March, 1970). * Monkkonen, Eric. ”Socializing the New Urbanites: Horatio Alger, Jr.'s Guidebooks." Journal of Popular Culture, XI, 1 (Summer, 1977), 77-87. Morris, Joe Alex. "The Corniest Show on the Road.” Saturday Evening Post, CCXXVIII (September 17, 1955), 30-31, 60-62, 70. Naeseth, Henriette. "Drama in Early Deadwood, 1876-1879.” American Literature, X (November, 1938), 289-312. Pennepacker, Carol. "A Surviving Toby Show: Bisbee's Comedians." Tennessee Folklore Society Bulletin, XXX, 2 (June, 1964), 49-52. ' Popkin, Zelda F. "The Tent Show Turns to Sex." Outlook and Independent. CLVI (September 24, 1930), 128- 30. . Ranney, Omar. "Forever Toby." Theatre Arts, XXXV (August, 1953), 73, 95. 221 ”The Significance of Joshua Whitcomb." Current Litera- ture. L (June, 1911), 648-50. Slout, William L. "Popular Literature of the Dramatic Tent Show." North Dakota Quarterly, XL, 4 (Autumn, 1972), 42-55. Steele, William Paul. "The Character of Melodrama: An Examination Through Dion Boucicault's 'The Poor of New York'." University of Maine Bulletin, University of Maine Studies, Second Series, 87, (1968). ”Talking Pictures and the Drama." Scientific American, CV, 7 (August 12, 1911), 156. ”What Are the Best Plays?" Literary Digest, XL (April, 1910), 879-80. Willson, Clair Eugene. ”Mimes and Miners: A Historical Study of the Theatre in Tombstone." University of Arizona Bulletin, VI, 7 (October 1, 1935). C. Unpublished Materials Ashby, Clifford. ”Trouping Through Texas: Harley Sadler and His Own Show." Paper presented at the Con- ference on the History of American Popular Enter- tainment, sponsored by the American Society for Theatre Research and the Theatre Library Associa- tion, New York, November 17-20, 1977. Clark, Larry Dale. "Toby Shows: A Form of American Popu- lar Theatre." Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, University of Illinois, 1963. Goff, Lewin A. ”The Popular Priced Melodrama in America, 1890 to 1910, With Its Origins and Development to 1890." Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Case Western Reserve University, 1948. Gore, John H. "A History of Platform and Stage in Bay City, Mich., in the Nineteenth Century." Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Wayne State University, 1966. Klassen, Robert D. "The Tent-Repertoire Theatre: A Rural American Theatre Institution." Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Michigan State University, 1969. Snyder, Sherwood, III. "The Toby Shows.” Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, University of Minnesota, 1966. 222 D. Newspapers Berrien County Record (Mich.). May 7, 1889. Coldwater Republican (Mich.). September 19, 1882. Mason-Chronicle Herald (Miss.). September 8, 1962. New York Times. October 16, 1927. E. Taped Interviews North, Ted. Interviewed by William L. Slout, Los Angeles, Ca., May 1, 1965. Rosier, Harold. Interviewed by Robert McDonald, Jackson, Mi., November 1973. F. Miscellaneous Unpublished Materials Michigan State University Library, Special Collections Division. Ledger books and other memorabilia from the Henderson Stock Company, donated by William L. Slout. Slout, William L. Letter to Robert McDonald and mimeo- graphed listing of full-length dramas in his per- sonal collection of plays from the repertoire era, March 8, 1974. G. Playscript Collections Nicoll, Allardyce, and Freedley, George E. English and~ American Drama of the Nineteenth Century. New York: Readex Microprint Corporation, 1969- Michigan State University Library, Special Collections Division. Harold Rosier Tent-Show Playscript Col- lection. 223 H. Plays * Indicates that the play may be found in Micro- print form in English and American Drama of the Nineteenth Century. + Indicates that the play may be found in photo- copy form in the Rosier Tent-Show Script Col- lection, Michigan State University Library. *Adams, Justin. T'riss; or,,Beyond the Rockies. Boston, 1893. Alfriend, Edward M. and Wheeler, A. C. The Great Diamond Robbery, in America's Lost Plays, Vol. VIII, Garrett H. Leverton, ed., Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1963. *Arthur, Joseph. Blue Jeans. New York, London, c. 1888. *Baker, George Melville. Among The Breakers. Boston, c. 1889. * . Nevada; or, The Lost Mine. Boston, c. 1882. +Black, Clarence. Jesse James. A tabloid play. Chicago, c. 1909. *Brier, Warren J. Jedediah Judkins, J.P. Chicago, c. 1888. *Brown, William M. The Trustee. Boston, c. 1891. *Burnett, Frances Hodgson, and Gillette, William Hooker. Esmerelda. New York and London, c. 1881. *Burnett, Frances Hodgson. Little Lord Fauntleroy. New York, c. 1889. Campbell, Bartley T. Fairfax, in America's Lost Plays, XIX, Napier Wilt, ed., Bloomington: Indiana Univer- sity Press, 1965. My Partner, in America's Lost Plays, XIX, Napier Wilt, ed., Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1965. +Compston, Nelson. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Chicago, 1910. + . Lena Rivers. Chicago, 1909. + . Little Pard. Chicago, 1914. + . Thelma. Chicago, 1911. 224 , and Herman, W. C. Won By Waiting. Chicago, 1912. *Cowley, E. J. and Bennette, W. J. Crawford's Claim; or, Nugget Nell, Pet of Poker Flat. New York, 1890. +Crawley, George. The Girl of the Flying X. n.p., c. 1916. *Dazey, Charles T. In Old Kentucky. New York, 1893. +*Donnelly, Henry Grattan. The American Girl. n.p., n.d.; [first prod., 1891]. + . Darkest Russia. n.p., n.d.; [first prod., 1893]. Doran, Marie. Tempest and Sunshine. New York and London, 1908. One of many dramatizations of Mary J. Holmes' novel of same title. *Elwyn, Lizzie May. Dot, the Miner's Daughter; or, One Glass of Wine. Clyde, 0., C. 1888. *Enebuske, Sarah F. A Detective in Petticoats. Boston, 1900. +Fabio Romani; or, The Vendetta. n.p., n.d.; [first prod., 1891]. *Fraser, John Arthur. A Cheerful Liar. Chicago, 1896. * . Dewey, the Hero of Manila. Chicago, 1897. * . A Noble Outcast. Chicago, 1888. * . Our Starry Banner. Chicago, 1897. * Santiago, or, For the Red, White and Blue. Chicago, 1898. * . The Showman's Ward. Chicago, 1896. *Greene, Clay Meredith. Forgiven. n.p., n.d.; 188-. This play may be found in Rosier Collection under title Jack O'Diamonds. * , and Grismer, Joseph R. The New South. n.p., 1893. +Grit, the Newsboy, n.p., n.d. Possibly Dunn, A. The Messenger pr, Copy- righted, 1902. 225 *Hanshew, Thomas W. The 'Forty-niners. Philadelphia, 1906. +Harrison, Charles F. The Awakening of John Slater. n.p., c. 1914. The Only Road. n.p.; n.d.; [1910's]. + . Saintly Hypocrites and Honest Sinners. n.p., C. 1915. +Harrison, Glenn. The Push; or, Tamed and How. n.p., n.d.; [1920's]. *Hart, Daniel L. The Parish Priest. Wilkes Barre, Pa., c. 1900. First produced, 1890. *Harte, Bret. The Judgment of Bolinas Plain see Pember- ton, Thomas E. +Herman, W. C. The Call of the Woods. Chicago, 1912. + . Clouds and Sunshine. Chicago, 1911. + . Diane's Atonement. Chicago, 1912. [Higgins, David K.] At Piney Ridge. n.p., n.d.; [first prod., 1897]. *Hitchcock, James R. and Hitchcock, Martha W. David Harum. New York, 1898. +[Hughes, Rupert.] Tess of the Storm Country. New York, 1910. *Ives, Alice E. and Eddy, Jerome H. The Village Post- master. New York and London, 1894. *Jones, Henry Arthur, and Herman, Henry. The Silver King. n.p., 188?. Kennedy, C. Rand. The Servant in the House. New York: Harper & Bros., 1908. +[Kidder, Edward, E.] Peaceful Valley. n.p., n.d.; [first prod., 1892]. +Kirby, Eugene. One Girl's Experience. n.p., n.d.; [first prod., 1918]. +Lawrence, John. Hal 0' the Hills. n.p., n.d.; [1910's]. +Leffingwell, Miron. The Chauffeur. Chicago, 1909. 226 + . St. Elmo; or, The Saving Grace. Chicago, 1909. + . [probable author]. The Genius and the Gentleman. n.p., n.d.; first production of Lef- fingwell play of this title, 1909. + . [probable author]. Amy, Child of the Circus. n.d., n.p.; Alex Byers copyrighted a Leffingwell play of this title, 1909. +[Locke, Will H.] The Girl and the Gawk. n.p., n.d.; [first prod., 1909]. *Marble, Scott. The Great Train Robbery. n.p., 1896. *Miller, Joaquin. The Danites in the Sierras. San Francis- co, 1882. *Moore, Bernard. The Moonshiner's Daughter. Boston, 1898. * . The Wrecker's Daughter. Boston, 1896. *[Mortimer, Lillian.] Bunco From Arizona. n.p., n.d.; [1900's]. . No Mother to Guide Her, in America's Lost Plays, Vol. VIII, Garrett H. Leverton, ed., Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1963. *Morter, E. J., and Abarbanell, Jacob R. Under Ma's Thumb. n.p., 1897. *Nelson, D. R. Amerine, the Moonshiner. Portland, Ore., 1899. *Nobles, Milton. From Sire to Sop; or, The Hour and the Man. Philadelphia, 1887. * . Interviews; or, Bright Bohemia. Philadelphia, 1881. * . Love and Law. Philadelphia, 1884. * . The Phoenix. Chicago, 1900; earlier copy- right 1875. *Parker, Lottie Blair, and Grismer, Joseph R. Way Down East, n.p., 189?. *Parker, W. C. Those Dreadful Twins. Chicago, 1900. *Patten, Gilbert. Nap, the Mascotte. Boston, 1898. 227 *Pemberton, Thomas Edgar, and Harte, Bret. Sue. A play in three acts. (Adapted from Bret Harte's story "The Judgment of Bolinas Plain.") London, 1902. +Potter, Paul Meredith. Trilby. n.p., n.d.; [1890's]. +Raymond, Fred. The Missouri Girl. n.p., n.d.; [1900's]. + . Old Arkansas. n.p., n.d.; [first prod., 1899]. +Red Cross Nurse. n.p., n.d.; [Late-1890's]. Possible authors: Wall, H. and Speck, S. H., c. 1898. *Richardson, Anna S. Miss Mosher of Colorado; or, a Mountain Psyche. New York, 1899. *Russ, William Ward. The Strike; or, Under the Shadow of a Crime. Clyde, Ohio, 1900. +Schaffner, Neil E. The Old Grouch. n.p., n.d.; [1920's]. + . What Every Daughter Learns. n.p., n.d.; [1920's]. + . Where is My Teddy. n.p., n.d.; [approximately 1927]. *Scoville, Nesbit Stone. The Country Kid. New York, 0. 1900. +Scribner, Edwin. Mr. Pepper's Pepper-Upper. n.p., n.d.; [1920's]. +Shepherd of the Hills, n.p., n.d.; [1910's]. One of many dramatizations of Harold Bell Wright's 1908 novel of the same title. Sherman, Robert L. Spooks. New York, 1924. + . Tildy Ann. n.p., n.d.; [1920's]. +Smith, Winchell, and Hazzard, John E. Turn to the Right. n.p., n.d.; [1910's]. *Stapleton, John. A Bachelor's Honeymoon. New York, 1897. *Stedman, W. Ellsworth. The Confidential Clerk. New York, 1892. * . The Yankee Detective. Chicago, 1886. *Stern, Edwin M. Hick'ry Farm. Chicago, 1891. 228 Taylor, Charles A. Rags to Riches, in America's Lost Plays, VIII, Garrett H. Leverton, ed., Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1963. *Taylor, Frederick W. A Pennsylvania Kid; or, A Soldier's Sweetheart. Boston, 1894. *Taylor, Tom. The Ticket-of-Leave Man. London, S. French, 1864. *Tees, Levin C. Tatters, the Pet of Squatter's Gulch. Philadelphia, 1912, (earlier copyright: 1893). * , and Murphy, J. Shriver. A Social Judas. Philadelphia, 1912, (earlier copyright: 1896). Thompson, Denman, and Ryer, George W. The Old Homestead, in S. R. 0.: The Most Successful Plays, B. Cerf and V. H. Cartmell, eds., Garden City, N.Y.: Harpers,21944. +Thorns and Orange Blossoms. n.p., n.d.; [1880's or 1890Mfl. One of many dramatizations of Charlotte M. Braem's 1860's novel of the same title. +Toby's on the Spot. n.p., n.d.; [1920's or 1930's]. An especially fine example of a 'Toby' drama. +Towney, Neil. Freckles. n.p., n.d.; [first prod., 1916]. A dramatization of Gene Stratton-Porter's 1904 novel. *Townsend, Charles. Border Land. Chicago, 1889. * . Broken Fetters. Chicago, 1890. * . The Golden Gulch. New York, 1893. * . The Iron Hand. Chicago, 1897. * . The Jail Bird. New York, 1893. * . The Man From Maine. New York, 1893. * . The Mountain Waif. Boston, 1892. * . Rio Grande. Boston, 1891. * . Tony, the Convict. Chicago, 1893. * . Uncle Josh. Chicago, 1891. * . Under a Cloud. New York, 1890. 229 +The Trail of the Lonesome Pine. n.p., n.d.; [1910's]. One of many dramatizations of John Fox, Jr.'s 1908 novel of the same title. *Vatter, August, and Spencer, John E. Out of the Shadow. Boston, 1889. *Ward, Lew. Claim Ninety-six. Clyde, 0., 1893. * . Gyp, the Heiress; or, the Dead Witness. Clyde, 0., 1892. * . My Pard; or, The Fairy of the Tunnel. Clyde, 0., 1895. * . Taggs, the Waif; or, Uncle Seth. Clyde, 0., 1896. *Wilkins, W. Henri. The Reward of Crime. Clyde, 0., 1880. *Willard, Charles 0. Little Goldie; or, the Child of the Camp. Clyde, 0., 1893. Woods, Walter. Billy The Kid, in America's Lost Plays, Vol. VIII, Garrett H. Leverton, ed., Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1963. +The Younger Brothers. n.p., n.d.; [1900's]. This may be a play entitled Younger Brothers, Bank Robbers that was copyrighted by William Stout in 1902. I. Reference Books Brown University. Library. Dictionary Catalogue of the Harris Collection of American Poetry and Plays, Brown University Library, Providence, Rhode Island. 13 vols. Boston: G. K. Hall, 1972. Browne, Ray B. and Geist, Christopher, D., eds. Popular Abstracts: Journal of Popular Culture, 1967-1977; Journal of Popular Film, 1972-1977; Popular Music and Society, 1971-1975. Bowling Green, 0.: Bowling Green University Popular Press, 1978. Gohdes, Clarence. Literature and Theatre of the States and Regions of the U.S.A.: An Historical Bibliography. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1967. Hart, James D. The Popular Book: A History of America's Literary Taste. New York: Oxford University Press, 1950. 230 Hixon, Don L. and Hennessee, Don A. Nineteenth-Century American Drama: A Finding Guide. Metuchen, N.J.: Scarecrow Press, Inc., 1977. An indispensable companion to the Readex Corporation's microprint collection of ”American Plays, 1831-1900," a portion of its English and American Plays of the Nineteenth Century. National Union Catalog, Pre-1956 Imprints. London: Mansell, 1968- Nolan, Paul T. Provincial Drama in America, 1870-1916: A Casebook of Primary Materials. Metuchen, N.J.: Scarecrow Press, 1967. Odell, George C. D. Annals of the New York Stage. 15 vols. New York: Columbia University Press, 1927— 1949. Sherman, Robert L. Drama Cyclopedia. Chicago: Author, 1944. Contains invaluable information on authors, titles, first professional production dates and places, and leading actors in casts of thousands of plays of all description. United States. Copyright Office. Dramatic Compositions Copyrighted in the United States, 1870-1916. 2 vols. Washington: Government Printing Office. An invaluable source of information for any study of this era's popular drama.